


Coventry

by standbygo



Series: Coventry [1]
Category: Dollhouse, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, BAMF John, Case Fic, Crossover, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, John Saves The Day, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Slow Burn, discussion of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 04:51:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 26
Words: 52,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2256522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Sherlock/Dollhouse crossover AU. Previous knowledge of Dollhouse not necessary; no spoilers either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites without my express permission. Thank you.
> 
> I've tried to write this so you can enjoy it whether or not you've seen Dollhouse. This is a WIP, but I've written about half already, and I've got it plotted out in my head to the end, so I promise not to abandon this. Would love your commentary as it goes. I plan to update weekly.
> 
> Edit: This fic is now complete. 
> 
> There are some scenes of attempted non-con, but please be assured that John always saves the day, and it's never between Sherlock and John. I'm a romantic, at heart.
> 
> Some characters will not be tagged to keep from spoilers!
> 
> Thank you to my lovely beta, residentburnburyist.
> 
> You can catch updates on my Tumblr: http://blogstandbygo.tumblr.com/
> 
> And now in Russian! http://archiveofourown.org/works/11878926/chapters/26824650

“That was a superlative case. At least an eight, possibly even a nine. Is it too much to ask that they all be like that?”

Sherlock walked down the street, jittery with manic energy. His long legs double tapped, his fingers flexed and clenched. John had to speed up a bit to keep up.

“Go through that again, will you, for those of us in the cheap seats. How did you know it was Fitzhenry?”

“Easy. Remember the victim, where most of the defense wounds were?”

“Sure, right side, so the killer was left handed.”

“Just so. And the killer was equally obviously a teacher or daycare worker, owned two cats and a budgerigar, lived alone-”

“Hold up, what?”

Sherlock made a moue of impatience, but John suspected it was for show. “Chalk dust at the scene. Cat hair, two different colours, on the clothes, small green feather found near the body.”

“Chalk dust? I remember a powder but they hadn’t finished the analysis yet.”

“Faster to identify by taste.”

John stopped for a moment. “Are you telling me there was white powder by a dead body, and you just put it in your mouth?”

Sherlock turned to John and smiled, showing his teeth.  “Problem?”

“Just remind me to bring activated charcoal next time.”

Sherlock’s mad grin transformed into a true smile, and John grinned back. “And the living alone?” he asked.

“Two cats and a budgerigar, John.”

“Gotcha.”

Sherlock started walking again, rustling with ebullience. “When we were interviewing Fitzhenry, I noticed traces of chalk dust on his left cuff. Standard indicator for a lefty. Pinned you as left handed the moment I saw you, by the way, ink stains on the heel of your hand.”

“So you accused him in front of the whole Met based on a touch of chalk on his cuff. You could have been prosecuted for libel, if he were innocent.”

“The innocent argue. The innocent gasp, they look astonished at the accusation. The innocent do not turn tail and run.”

“True.”

“How’s the leg?”

“Fine.” In fact, John ached in every muscle from the chase, was bruised up one side of his body from tackling Fitzhenry to the ground; he hurt, he was tired, and he had never felt so alive.

Sherlock’s energy was dissipating into grumpiness now. “I don’t understand why I had to give my statement right away. If Lestrade had been paying attention at all he wouldn’t need my statement.”

“Yes, but then you wouldn’t get to come out and have such fun.” John glanced back at the flashing lights of the police cars; they were well out of sight of the officers now, the street was dark and quiet and deserted. Perfect.

He nudged Sherlock and said, “Hey.”

Sherlock looked down at him curiously. “What?”

“I’m hungry – dim sum?” he said.

Sherlock’s smile immediately lost its manic edge, became wider, softer. His pace slowed into a stroll. “I can always predict the fortune cookies.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Yes, I can.”

Sherlock’s demeanour had completely changed now; more relaxed, more serene. John smiled at him, took his arm and guided him around a corner, and Sherlock followed willingly.

“Would you like to have a treatment?” John said.

“Yes, I love my treatments,” Sherlock said placidly.

“Do you trust me?”

“With my life.”

“Good.”

John led Sherlock into a quiet alley and into the back of a black van that stood waiting. He shut the door and tapped on the window separating them from the driver, then turned back and buckled Sherlock and himself in. Sherlock sat passively, docile and gentle.

John watched him, a smile still flickering on his face. “You were amazing,” he said softly.

Sherlock looked up, his eyes doe-like and innocent and shining.

“I try to be my best,” he replied.

+

_Two days earlier_

“And then you just sit here? Watch the monitors? While she…”

“Yup,” Blake said, propping his feet up by the keyboard. “Easy peasey.”

“Let me get this straight,” John said, wondering when his life had become a science fiction film. “Some guy orders up a personality, a person, to his specifications-”

“And coughs up a boatload of money, don’t forget.”

“- and they program this into a real live person, who has _consented_ to do this, and she goes to this person and acts as his wife, or lawyer, or Royal Marine, or Navy Seal or what have you, and she has all the skills, all the knowledge, everything?”

“Yup,” Blake said, popping the final P.

“And you monitor her while she’s doing… whatever, and then you say the magic words, and she follows you back to The House, and they erase it all until her next appointment?”

“Got it in one.”

“That girl, that little wisp of a thing, could fight like a Royal Marine?”

“I wish. Magdalen never gets called out on engagements like that.”

“Wait, she said her name was Beatrix.”

“Right now she’s Beatrix, but back at The House, she’s just Magdalen. They’re all named for churches. We’ve got an Alban, a Clement, a Benet, an Ely, a Dunstan, even a bloody Assisi. Magdalen usually gets tagged for R engagements.”

“R?”

“Romantic.”

“Jesus.” John shook his head. “And you watch?”

Blake barked a laugh, and John decided that he didn’t like Blake much at all. “Not in person, client wouldn’t go for that, would they? No, I watch her biolink from here – heart rate, metabolism, chemical levels, that kind of thing. The A engagements – Action – they usually program their chips so you can listen in, check if they get in trouble. But I got stuck with Magdalen and her R engagements. Booooring.”

“So… she’s having sex with him? Right now?”

“That’s right.”

“That’s kind of… sick. Like pimping.”

“Hey, it’s not bad for her either. There’s no consequences. He gets happy, she gets happy, it all gets wiped at the end of the day, and she’s pure as the driven snow.”

John turned away from Blake’s leer and cast his eye over the screens. Blake stood and, leaning over John’s shoulder, pointed at the heart rate.  “There, you see? She’s getting happy.”

John looked at the heart rate, and his brow furrowed. “An elevated heart rate doesn’t just mean sexual excitement, you know,” he said. He glanced then at the brain scan, then traced his fingers to the chemical read. “Sexual excitement means endorphins, dopamine, oxytocin.”

Blake’s joking manner vanished, and he squinted at the screen. “So what’s that?”

“Adrenaline. She’s not happy.”

John jumped out of the van and sprinted up the long driveway towards the mansion, with Blake and the driver of the van thudding behind, calling for backup on his mobile. He tried the front door, unsurprisingly locked, and ran around the perimeter of the house until he found the French doors in the back garden. A small statue of a cherub stood in the garden, and he pulled it out of the wet earth and heaved it through the doors. 

He ran through the kitchen as Blake panted behind him. “Wait – John – client-”

“Don’t care right now,” he said as he ran up the stairs. A long hallway, at least ten doors, but only one closed. John kicked it open with a satisfying bang.

The bedroom was all white – the walls, the carpet, the bedclothes – and John was nearly blinded by it for a moment. He blinked, and saw a naked man, crowded against the headboard, cowering in fear. In the centre of the bed he saw the slight young woman known as Magdalen, or Beatrix, tied hand and foot, ball gag in her mouth, tears tracking down her face.

“Get the _fuck_ away from her,” he snarled, and grabbed the man in a neck hold and pulled him off the bed.

“Just a bit of fun,” the client whimpered.

“Didn’t pay for that kind of fun,” Blake said, as he moved to Magdalen’s side and unbuckled the gag. He leaned over her and touched her gently on the head. “The garden needs weeding,” he said.

“What the actual fuck, Blake?” John yelled in disbelief.

“It’s the call and response,” Blake snapped, not breaking eye contact. Then he gentled his voice again and repeated, “The garden needs weeding.”

And Magdalen said softly, calmly, “The day lilies will bloom soon.”

“Would you like a treatment, Magdalen?”

“Yes, I love my treatments.”

John watched the pair, his jaw hanging open, fighting to keep his focus and his hold on the naked, whinging client.

_This is so fucked up_ , he thought.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is summoned to a meeting with the man in charge of The House.

The elevator seemed to take forever to get to the top floor, and because it only had two buttons – “Up” and “Down” – John had no idea how many floors were between the reception desk and his destination. He looked around at the velveted wall panels, and his warped sense of humour made him want to start humming _The Girl from Ipanema_.

He wasn’t quite sure what to expect. He had received a message that morning asking him to come to the “main office”. The receptionist had barely looked up from her screen to gesture him towards the elevator. He wasn’t sure if he had been summoned to discuss or report on the events of the previous evening, or if he was to be fired, or… with the weirdness he had seen so far, there was an infinite number of other possibilities, wasn’t there?

The elevator sounded a faint, polite beep, and the doors slid open silently. He stepped out directly into a large office, tastefully and minimally decorated. A large desk stood in the corner with a high tech computer; sofa and chairs arranged in the centre of the room; a wall of screens showing live security feeds of different areas of The House, with a large painting above it, clearly intended to slide down and hide the screens. One entire wall was a window looking out on London, and John could see that he was at least twenty floors up.

A man stood with his back to John, looking out the window at the panoramic view, his hands clasped behind his back. As John stepped into the room, the man turned and said, “Ah, Mister Watson. Or rather, Doctor Watson, I beg your pardon.”

His voice was smooth, and smug, and condescending; he was dressed expensively and immaculately, his reddish sparse hair neatly combed. John immediately hated him. Of course, he had spent the past year hating most people on sight, so this was nothing new.

“Won’t you take a seat, Doctor Watson?” the man said, gesturing to the expensive looking sofa.

“I’m fine here,” John replied tersely, finding himself subconsciously in parade rest stance.

“As you wish.” He passed to a side bar and poured tea from an expensive looking pot. “May I offer you something?”

“No, thank you.” John could see the man’s nails were manicured, his hands soft.

Holding the cup and saucer, the man turned and leaned against the sidebar in an attitude that imitated a casual demeanour but was anything but. “I’ve read the report of the incident from last night. Quite thoroughly.”

 _That’s it, I’m getting fired_ , John thought, and the thought that immediately followed that was _Good_.

“I commend you for your actions, Doctor Watson. But for your quick work, Magdalen would have been badly… damaged. As it is, she has been successfully wiped and remembers nothing of the incident.”

“Oh. That’s… oh.” He couldn’t say _That’s good_ , because he didn’t think it was. “Thank you.”

The man strolled over and sat on the sofa, as if at an expensive club or the golf course. He tilted his head at John and stared piercingly. “You have a strong moral compass, I think.”

“I like to think so.”

“I don’t just mean last night, admirable as that was. Not content with your rescue of the girl, you are now questioning whether you wish to continue your association with us. In fact, you came here prepared to resign if I didn’t fire you for assaulting the client.”

John’s brow furrowed. “How did you-”

“Your eyes are red, and there are dark circles under your eyes, so clearly you didn’t sleep well. You spent the night awake, pondering what to do. You were disturbed enough to consider quitting, but something kept you from doing so immediately. I suspect your present financial position is making you feel conflicted, given our generous salary for handlers. Nonetheless, you have written out your resignation, and I can see the corner of the envelope sticking out of your jacket pocket. Am I correct?”

John cleared his throat, cleared it again. “Yes, but how-”

The man carried on as if he hadn’t heard. “It is unfortunate that you had such a negative first impression of our organization, Doctor Watson. Did you know the technology we use was developed in America? The first house was in Los Angeles, and was a roaring success for several years, until its owners, the Rossum Corporation, got a bit greedy and allowed the system to get out of control.” He snorted. “Americans. Obsessed with money and sex. They narrowly avoided a disaster of epic proportions.”

“The stakeholders’ stock index took a hit, did it?” John said thinly.

The man smiled without humour and stared into his drink. “No. Best not said, really.” He paused for a moment, then looked up at John again, coming back into the moment. “After their mistakes came to light, they wished to abandon the technology outright. I bought it, and established firm policies to prevent such a disaster from reoccurring.” He counted off on his fingers. “Strict control of downloads. Psychological testing on volunteer actives to eliminate those with violent tendencies. Limited R engagements. And so on. But as you learned last night, we are constantly learning.”

John pursed his lips, intrigued despite himself. “Glad to be of service.”

“The most important policy is this: each client must present a compelling case for the personality they are requesting – they must prove that the personality will… do good, for lack of a better phrase. Better society. Improve the world around them. Bring closure to the brokenhearted. Do a kindness. Brilliant defense lawyers for the innocently accused, for example. This allows both our organization and our clients to keep on the straight and narrow, as it were.”

John felt himself getting angry again. “And how does Magdalen getting trussed up like a chicken advance society?”

“Again, an unfortunate aberration. Mr. Henderson had presented his case as a widower, hoping to rectify a wrong he had done to his deceased wife. Unfortunately our background check failed to turn up his sado-masochistic tendencies.”

“Whoopsie,” John said through his teeth.

“Which brings me again to your strong moral compass. Would it reassure you to know that in addition to Magdalen’s trauma being completely erased from her memory, we are revamping our screening procedures for R engagements to include a psychological scan of clients? And that handlers for future R engagement will be trained to recognize the signs that alerted you to the situation?” The man looked away, coolly took a sip of his tea. “In addition, Mr. Blake has been relieved of his duties with Magdalen, and is being… retrained.”

 _What gives me the idea that ‘retrained’ doesn’t mean extra push-ups like it did in the army?_ John thought, but said nothing.

“I have a confession to make, Doctor Watson,” the man continued. “After last night’s incident, I reviewed your file most carefully. I found it… intriguing.”

The man set down his tea and picked up a file folder that had been on the coffee table in front of him, opened it and ran his finger down the page as he spoke. “Two tours of duty in Afghanistan with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as a medic. Special training as a marksman, achieved high scores. Received the Distinguished Service Cross. Invalided home with a shoulder wound last year. Attempted to find work as a medical professional in London but were unable to secure a post; unemployed since you returned.”

“That’s a little too-”

“Parents dead, in a car accident while you were at university, drunk driving. Sister, Harriet, is also an alcoholic.”

John felt fury slam through his muscles. He spoke through gritted teeth. “Who the hell are you, that information can’t possibly be in my file, you have no right-”

“I am your employer,” the man snapped, and the smugness, the cool demeanour vanished instantly. “That is all you need to know about me.”

A moment passed in tense silence, then the man took a deep breath, looked back down at the file, and spoke as though there had been no interruption. “Married Mary Elizabeth Morstan during your leave before your second tour of duty, but while you were abroad she died during a miscarriage suffered due to-”

“Stop,” John said, as quietly as he could.

“- undiagnosed pre-eclampsia.” The man looked up at John. “My sympathies.”

“I don’t want your God damn sympathy,” John said, pulling the letter from his jacket pocket and holding it out, hating how his hand was shaking.

The man stood and crossed to John, standing directly in front of him, fixing him with a stare. John stared back, gritting his teeth behind tight lips. After a moment, the man turned away, leaving John with his hand and the letter still extended. “I’d like to make you an offer, Doctor Watson.”

“What on earth makes you think I’ll take it?”

The man shrugged, infuriatingly. “As I said, Mr. Blake is no longer Magdalen’s handler. I could assign you to her, and you could accompany her on the R engagements she specializes in, with the occasional teacher thrown in. She also has a nurse personality that is most helpful during epidemics, when hospitals find themselves short-staffed.”

He leaned against his desk, mouth twisted in a half smile, half grimace. “Being Magdalen’s handler would be easy for a man of your skill set. Unchallenging. Predictable. Booooring.”

The man imitated Blake so perfectly from the night before that John got prickles up his arms. He was still holding the letter out ridiculously, and let it fall to his side where the shaking wouldn’t be so noticeable.

“Instead, I’d like to make you another offer,” the man continued. “I propose that you become the handler for one of our actives named Coventry.”

“Coventry?” _Bloody churches as names, I’ll never get used to that_ , John thought, then was shocked at himself for thinking like that, as if he was actually going to continue with this madness.

The man turned and looked out the window again. “Coventry is a very special active. He has a certain number of personalities that are unique to him, not shared, and they themselves are unique. No R engagements, but terribly interesting. Some of these personalities could be managed by just any handler, but there is one who is… very special.

“That personality requires a handler who would accompany him at all times, protect him, assist him. While I admire your hand-to-hand combat skills, for these engagements you would be equipped with a gun which you would carry on your person at all times. Terrifically exciting. But he does very good work indeed.”

“And what does… Coventry… do?”

The man smiled, his lips stretching across his pale face, his teeth hidden. “He’s a consulting detective.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How John met Sherlock. “What’s a Sherlock?”

John paced nervously around the installation room, while Mark, the tech, flitted from monitor to monitor. He could feel the cool weight of the gun tucked into his waistband, calming him somewhat. He hadn’t touched a gun since he was wounded, and when he held it he felt as though a puzzle piece had fallen into place. Still. He took another turn to pace the room again, and bumped directly into Mark.

“Sit down, will ya?” Mark said with irritation but without rancour. “Or at least stand in a corner. Coventry’s on his way, and I’ll be done soon, but I won’t be if you keep getting underfoot.”

“Sorry,” John muttered. He found the corner that seemed to be least filled with equipment and stood there, clenching and unclenching his fist. He stared at the framed poster on Mark’s wall - Albert Einstein sticking his tongue out. The image felt strangely appropriate for the situation.

Mark stole a glance at him, an appraising look. “Nervous? Or… second thoughts?”

“Some of each. This is all just a little… weird.”

“I hear ya.” He clicked a few more buttons, then turned to look at John. “I heard about Magdalen, by the way, what you did. You did more good than you know, you know? A lot of the handlers had been getting lax, believing that the dolls are really just dolls.”

“Dolls?”

Mark shrugged. “The official term is ‘actives’,” he said, using his fingers to create quotation marks in the air, “but I call them dolls. When they’re in the doll-state, they – they’re like children, really.”

“I thought that Coventry was the… donor. The original personality. The volunteer.”

“Oh no. No no no. The original was – well, his name and information are sealed until he finishes his contract, but he was a pretty keen guy. No genius, but not like this. No, Coventry is kind of a neutral state. No personality at all. And that’s kind of the problem. They _look_ like they’re completely vacant, but some of the handlers forget that they are actually people, and that when their contract is over, they’ll walk out the door again, and it would be good to protect them in the meantime.”

“That’s the best attitude I’ve heard here yet.”

“Maybe it’s because I see them when they first come in, and I save the original personalities, I build and install all the personalities they have. Different perspective. It’s a bit distressing to see how some of the handlers act towards their actives. I heard we might get a new Head of Security, knock them into shape.”

“That would be – good.” John was surprised that he meant it.

The door opened, and both Mark and John turned to look. The first to enter was a weasel-faced man with an ill-fitting suit, black hair that sat on his head like a bad wig, and a sour expression. “We’re here,” he said, petulance clear even in just two words.

“Hey, Anderson.” Mark gave a half wave and turned his back to fiddle with the computer some more. John noticed that the warmth had slipped out of his voice, and assumed that Anderson was one of the handlers Mark didn’t care for. He turned his attention to the second man, to the active called Coventry.

Coventry was tall and thin, wearing yoga pants and a singlet that draped softly over his body. Black curly hair contrasted starkly with his pale skin and prominent cheekbones. John noted his heterochromatic eye colour, the eyes set a little wider apart than normal, the long face and neck.

 _My God_ , he thought, _he looks like a cross between an English nobleman and an alien_.

“You’re the new handler?” Anderson asked, bringing John out of his reverie.

“Yeah. John Watson.” He extended his hand to shake, which Anderson did perfunctorily.

“All power to you,” Anderson said. “Can’t wait to be shot of him. Everyone goes on and on about how clever he is, as if it gives him the excuse to be an arsehole.”

“At least he has an excuse,” John shot back without thinking.

He heard Mark exhale a nearly silent laugh behind him, barely disguised as a cough. Anderson’s face darkened, and he turned to Mark. “You don’t need me anymore?”

“No. Come back at four and I’ll bond you to Assisi.”

“Assisi. Great.” Anderson nodded tersely and positively stomped out of the room, pushing past Coventry, who was still standing quietly in the doorway.

John let out his breath in a hiss. “What a charmer.”

Mark started giggling. “Oh, that was marvellous. ‘At least he had an excuse,’ brilliant. You’re going to do well with Sherlock, I can tell already.”

“What’s a Sherlock?”

Mark smiled as if holding in a secret. “In a minute. First we need to bond Coventry to you.”

“Uh…”

“Chill out, I mean the call and response, so he’ll trust you, follow you when you need him to.” Mark walked over to Coventry and gently took his arm. “Come over here for your treatment, Coventry.”

“I love my treatments,” Coventry said, and John was a bit surprised at how deep his voice was.

Coventry sat in the chair and sat back, his head cradled by the headrest, relaxing completely as the chair tilted back. John found himself thinking about going to the dentist as a child, the trust he had had before his first cavity, which he had considered a personal betrayal.

Mark returned to the controls and typed rapidly. “First we need to erase his bond with Anderson,” he said, and pressed a button on the chair, muttering, “And good riddance.”

John was startled when Coventry’s body spasmed in the chair. “Does it hurt him?”

“…Maybe?” Mark had the grace to look a bit guilty. “But it lasts only a moment, then they have no memory of it. See?” John saw that it was true; Coventry had already relaxed again in the chair, his face blank and impassive.

“Righto. Phase two.” Mark shoved a piece of paper into John’s hand.

John glanced at it and then stared at Mark. “Are you out of your mind?”

Mark shrugged again. “It’s a script, the call and response, it will bond you to Coventry. It’s slightly different for each doll. This script comes directly from the big boss upstairs.”

“Does no one actually know his name? Or do we all call him The Big Boss?”

Mark stared at him, hard. “You do realize you’re the first person that has come back from his office, not just with your job still, but with a promotion? Just read the script, he wrote it specifically for Coventry.”

John muttered to himself, but stepped to Coventry’s side.

“Take his hand.”

“Aw, come on,” John snapped.

“It helps the bond. The physicality of it. Establish eye contact as well. Chill out, and go ahead.”

John sighed, and picked up Coventry’s hand, feeling how delicate the bones were, how cool the skin. He held up the script in his other hand, and feeling completely ridiculous, said, “I’m hungry. Dim sum?”

Coventry turned his head towards him, fixed him with his unearthly eyes, and said calmly, “I can always predict the fortune cookies.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Would you like to have a treatment?”

“Yes, I love my treatments.”

“Do you trust me?”

Coventry hesitated for a split second, and John felt the slight press of fingers against his hand. “With my life.”

“Aaaand that’s it,” Mark said, and John felt as if a spell had been broken. He released Coventry’s hand and stepped back, crumpling the sheet of paper in his hand.

Mark picked up a small black box from his desk, which looked like an old fashioned hard drive from a computer. He inserted it into a slot in the chair behind Coventry’s head, then clicked a few more buttons. He glanced up at John, grinning. “Are you ready to meet Sherlock?”

“…Okay.”

Mark turned to the keyboard and pressed Enter. Coventry’s body convulsed again, and John wanted desperately to look away but couldn’t.

After a minute that felt like an hour, Coventry stilled, and the chair elevated into a sitting position. He sat up, and John saw the change in his eyes first – they sparked with intelligence and impatience. He felt suddenly vulnerable as the blue-green eyes looked him up and down. After a moment, his mouth pulled up into a smirk.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he said.

The vacant, dreamy tone of his voice was gone, and was replaced by a sharp edge in the baritone note.

“S-Sorry?” John stuttered.

Coventry – but even John could see that this clearly wasn’t Coventry any more, it was Sherlock – Sherlock jumped out of the chair and headed to the elevator leading to the garage. “Come on, Lestrade’s waiting. This better be an improvement over the last one, it was a _six_ , I don’t get _dressed_ for anything below a seven.”

John blinked at him, then jumped to join him in the elevator. His last glimpse of Mark was of the tech waving his hand and saying with a grin, “Have fun!”

+

And then there was police tape and flashing lights, and a careworn Detective Inspector named Lestrade, and a body with white powder nearby, and Sherlock rattling off his observations and conclusions, and a witness Sherlock suddenly accused of being the murderer, and a chase that made John’s blood feel like liquid fire.

In the elevator at The House, John felt the adrenaline dissipate from his muscles and be replaced by a not unpleasant ache. He looked over at Sherlock, staring at the floor with his coat wrapped around him, a smear of chalk and mud on his cheek, and John found himself laughing.

“That was ridiculous,” he giggled.

Sherlock looked up. He was still Sherlock, the intelligence writ plain in his eyes, but for the first time all night John saw the skin beside his eyes crinkle, and his lips pull up into a pure smile without a trace of a smirk.

“And you invaded Afghanistan,” he replied, and they both laughed together as the elevator doors opened.

“Welcome back, gentlemen,” Mark said. “Have a seat, Sherlock.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said as he sat and settled back into the chair. “John, remind me when my treatment is over to text Lestrade – I think we can link Fitzhenry to some cold cases dating back a few years ago.”

“Will do,” John replied.

Sherlock’s body convulsed for a brief moment, and John watched his face clear, the lines between his brows smooth out. As the chair elevated, he looked at Mark with mild bemusement.

“Did I fall asleep?” Sherlock – no, Coventry – said.

“For a little while,” Mark answered kindly.

“Shall I go now?”

“If you like.” Mark turned to John. “You’ll have to take him to get changed, then go have him checked by Dr. Hooper.”

“Is that standard?”

“For him it is,” Mark replied. “Go with John, Coventry.”

“All right.” Coventry stood and looked down at himself. “What a nice coat,” he said. “How did it get so muddy?”

+

Dr. Hooper turned out to be a sweet faced, timid young woman with a long brown ponytail and a lab coat that made her look like she was playing dress up.

“You’re his new handler?”

“Yeah, John Watson. John.” He shook her hand.

“Molly.” She turned back to Coventry. “Hop up on the table, please, Coventry.” He obeyed immediately, stretching out on the examination table. “Where does it hurt today?”

“Nothing hurts,” Coventry replied.

Molly’s brows came together in a puzzled frown, and she began to examine him. John watched her work, noting that while she looked childlike, medically she knew what she was doing. “He may have turned an ankle while we were running, I saw him stumble,” he said.

She rotated the ankle carefully, then looked up at John. “Just a bit. This is amazing – he always gets hurt, I’ve never seen him come back without being hurt.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes,” she said matter-of-factly, binding up Coventry’s left ankle. “Bruises, black eye, split lip, that sort of thing. A knife wound, once.”

“Jesus.”

“He’s – he’s not careful, usually. Looks like you took good care of him.” She tucked the loose end of the bandage in and patted him on the foot. “You can go, Coventry. If you want to go swimming, take the bandage off first and put in back on afterwards. Don’t do yoga today.”

“May I do art?”

“If you wish. Off you go.”

John watched him go, and shook his head at the surreal day he had had.

“How about you?” Molly said, interrupting his thoughts.

“Mm? Oh, fine. Took a dive at one point, but I’m fine. Probably get a lovely bruise along my side.”

“May I?” she said, pointing shyly at his ribs. He nodded and pulling up his shirt.

As she examined his side, John looked down at her appraisingly. Sweet, pretty, smart, competent. He searched inside himself for a reaction, an attraction, the spark of something he had felt a million times since puberty whenever he met a woman, the spark that had been a firework when he met Mary.

Nothing. Just emptiness, a yawning maw of nothingness inside him. He didn’t even feel enough inside him to be disappointed with the lack of response.

He shrugged internally, and reframed his thoughts. She seemed kind, and seemed to like Coventry enough to treat him as a human being instead of a doll like everyone else. He would no doubt be seeing a lot of her. It occurred to him that an ally, a friend, in this house would not be a bad idea at all.

“Not bad,” Molly said, “though it will probably smart in the morning. You’ve taken off a layer of skin here, would you like some ointment?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” he said as he tucked his shirt back in. “Hot bath tonight will cure all ills.”

“That’s my prescription,” she giggled. “Bubbles optional.” She put a hand over her mouth as if trying to push back the giggles that had already spilled out. “Thank you,” she said, suddenly serious.

“For what?”

Molly nodded towards the door. “Coventry. He’s not very careful, but not many people have been careful with him either. I – I know we’re not supposed to – we’re supposed to be objective with them, but I – I _like_ Coventry. He’s special.”

“Coventry, or Sherlock?”

“Coventry. I’ve never met Sherlock.”  

“Of course.”

Molly ducked her head shyly. “Also he’s very nice looking, isn’t he?”

John looked down at her with a small smile. “I’m not really the one to ask.”

“No, no, of course not.” She made an embarrassed little peeping noise, and turned back to her examination table. “See you around, then, John.”

Later, when John was home and had taken the hottest shower he could stand, he lay back on his single bed and thought about everything that had happened in the last forty eight hours. Easily the most bizarre, unusual two days of his life. He’d seen humans acting like brutes or gods, and dolls acting like humans.

A year ago he had been half mad with grief when Mary died, and then he’d been shot and he thought – hoped – the pain would take him the rest of the way to insanity. He’d pulled through, but the only two emotions that seemed to have survived the ordeal were boredom and anger. His visceral response to anyone he met was either profound dislike or indifference.

But today he’d met Mark, who seemed to be a good egg; Molly, who was sweet even if he wasn’t attracted to her, and – Sherlock. Sherlock wasn’t real, he kept reminding himself; he was a doll with a computer programmed personality, but he seemed more real than anyone else he had met before. And while he’d been with Sherlock, he’d never felt so alive.

He fell asleep while contemplating this, and had the first dreamless sleep he’d had in a year.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Coventry's other personalities.

A few days later, John was summoned to The House again for another engagement. He found Coventry walking through the main hall with measured steps and touched him gently on the arm. Coventry turned to him with a slight but vague smile.

“Hello Coventry. It’s time for your treatment.”

“Oh. Thank you,” Coventry said, and followed John without hesitation to the control room. _Oh, that’s not eerie at all_ , John thought.

Mark was flitting around the control room, and glanced up when they entered. “Hey John, hello Coventry,” he said. “Have a seat, Coventry, be right with you.”

“What’s up today, Mark? Another case for Sherlock?” John heard the eagerness in his own voice and felt embarrassed.

“No, today’s engagement is brought to you by the letter V for Vernet,” Mark replied. “Remember Sherlock is only one of Coventry’s designated wedges.”

“Right, of course,” John said.

“This is an easy peasey one, though, just monitoring from the van.”

“Okay.”

“And here we go,” Mark said, and clicked a button. As John watched Coventry shake in the chair he wondered if he would ever get used to this, ever not feel mildly horrified at this process.

After only a moment, the chair elevated and Coventry sat up. John could see the intelligence in his eyes, but it was somehow different from Sherlock’s.

“Vernet, this is John,” Mark said.

Vernet looked John up and down with barely concealed distain, then looked down at his loose clothes with equal scorn.

He looked up at Mark. “White tie, I assume?”

“Yes, John will take you through to wardrobe.”

A slightly arched eyebrow in John’s direction, and Vernet stood and walked swiftly past John to the elevator, with John trotting behind. Just before the door closed, Mark shouted, “Don’t forget to stop by props too!”

Vernet didn’t speak a word to John during the elevator ride and the walk to wardrobe. He emerged from the change room in flawless white tie and tails, with a chain draped across his waistcoat, his curly hair slicked back. John was feeling shabbier by the minute.

In the props area, Vernet was handed a black rectangular case, wider and longer than a briefcase. John wondered briefly if it was a gun case, then shook his head at himself.

The van took them to a mansion in Kensington. Twilight was falling as Vernet stepped out of the van with the case. He turned to John and said, “You will remain here.” Then he marched towards the main door. It was the first time Vernet had spoken directly to John.

John sighed and sat back, prepared for a long, boring evening. He watched the monitors diligently, but there was no change at all. Vernet’s heartbeat never increased beyond a resting rate.

+

“John, I’d like to introduce Professor Scott,” Mark said.

Scott smiled briefly but distractedly at John, then looked around the room. “Sorry, what’s the time?”

John looked at his watch. “Quarter of nine.”

“Right, we’re in good time, but mustn’t dally,” Scott said, jumping out the chair, patting at his non-existent pockets. “Um, I seem to have…”

“John will take you to wardrobe.”

“Thanks ever so.”

Less than fifteen minutes later, Scott stepped into the van, wearing corduroy trousers, a tweed jacket with a sweater vest underneath, and carrying a battered leather briefcase. They drove to Oxford, with Scott’s nose buried in an academic journal the whole trip. John wondered how he wasn’t carsick; he was getting queasy just watching him.

They stopped outside Jesus College, and Scott hopped out and began to walk away, then checked himself and turned back. He put his briefcase down and checked inside, muttering, “My notes, my notes, where are – ah!” He reclosed the briefcase and looked up at John. “Should be about two hours, really depends how many questions they have afterwards.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” John replied.

“Right,” Scott said, then patted his breast pocket. A look of horror spread over his face as he checked each of his pockets, then looked in his briefcase. “Oh Christ, my glasses, I’ve forgotten them, oh shit, we’ll need to go back-”

“They’re on your head,” John said.

Scott’s hands fumbled into his hair and pulled the glasses off, a flush gathering across his cheeks. “Ah. Um. Thank you.” And he turned away, muttering, and hurried into the college.

John was able to hold out until he was out of sight before he let the giggle burst out of him.

+

“Oh crumbs, I’m not late, am I? I’m always late, it’s so awful.”

“You’re not late, William, plenty of time,” Mark said. “Off you go with John to get ready.”

William dressed similarly to Sherlock, in a smart fitted suit and button down shirt, but without the dramatic coat. They drove out to Sussex Downs, to a pretty cottage with a walled garden.

“Do I look all right, John?” William said as he exited the van. “She does fuss, you know.”

“You look fine.”

“I’ll be – oh, I don’t know – two hours or so? I do hope you won’t be too bored. Did you – did you bring a book?”

“I’ll be fine,” John said, trying not to smile.

“Right you are,” William said, and walked quickly and eagerly to the gate.

It was a warmish spring day, and John stood outside the van, leaving the door open just enough to watch the monitors, and enjoyed the sunshine and slight breeze. At one point he saw William through the gate, walking around the garden. His body was mostly blocking another person, who was much shorter than him, with shoulder length white hair. An older woman, John assumed. He had heard about ‘Miss Lonely Hearts” engagements – older women engaging handsome young men for sex. He wondered if this was one of those situations, but then remembered that Coventry never did R engagements, and besides, his attitude towards her didn’t appear to be sexual, more – courtly, perhaps.

A little over two hours later, William came back through the gate and entered the van, and John climbed in after him. William was silent until they turned onto the main road, then said quietly, “That was lovely.”

He said nothing else, but looked down at the floor of the van for the rest of the trip, biting his lip and looking sad. John found himself staring, and forced himself to look away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A case goes badly wrong, and then things take an unexpected twist.

“Back again, eh, Watson?”

John turned his attention from Sherlock, who was examining the wall where the missing painting had hung so closely his nose scraped the plaster, and saw Detective Inspector Lestrade beside him.

“Yeah… uh, is that okay?”

“More than okay,” Lestrade replied. “He’s only 85% prat when you’re around, vast improvement.”

“Glad to help,” John grinned. He’d now been on five Sherlock engagements, and had developed a grudging admiration for the belaboured DI. This was the first time Lestrade had approached him by himself.

“How long have you known Sherlock anyway?”

“Uh… about a month and a half, I guess?” In a case like this, John figured that the truth was easier to say than a lie; it was a harmless truth anyway.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes a bit. “So just before you came to the Fitzhenry case?”

John shrugged; another harmless truth. “I met him that day, actually. Got caught up in Hurricane Sherlock.”

Lestrade snorted. “I hear ya.” He looked over at Sherlock again. “So you two are…?”

“No, no, of course not, just… a friend.”

Lestrade held up his hands with a protest. “Hey, don’t worry, just asking. Anyway, you’re better than that other fella that used to come around with him, Anderson. I once found him chatting up one of my female officers, no Sherlock in sight. Not even half a block away, I found Sherlock in the middle of a fistfight with the suspect. Some friend.”

John clenched his fists and wondered how he would hold back from punching Anderson the next time he saw him.

“Lestrade! John!” Sherlock called impatiently.

“His master’s voice,” Lestrade muttered, walking towards Sherlock. John followed, leaving his vengeful thoughts for the time being.

“Whatcha got, Sherlock?” Lestrade said as he approached.

“Not much. Security footage camera is on a two minute sweep of the room, the thief removed the painting between sweeps. Wore gloves. Painting was large, but he removed it without scratching the wall, so strong upper -” Suddenly Sherlock stopped, sniffed audibly, then threw himself face down on the floor. He sniffed again, tapped his fingertip against the floor, then licked his finger.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, stop tasting crime scenes!” John snapped. He was beginning to think that bringing active charcoal might not be an idle threat.

“Pine scent. Not cleaning fluid, stickier.” Sherlock began crawling along the floor, sniffing as he went. John didn’t know whether to be amused, embarrassed or horrified, and nearly started giggling when he saw Lestrade surreptitiously pull out his cameraphone. He pushed the DI’s hand down while he said, “What in hell are you doing, Sherlock?”

“I know this smell – pine, traces of beeswax – oh! rosin! – it was on the thief’s shoes – Lestrade, did your people search the alley outside this door yet?”

“No, it’s alarmed, let me call the-” But the rest of Lestrade’s sentence was lost to the howl of the alarm as Sherlock opened the door. John shrugged at the DI as he trotted after Sherlock.

The alleyway was dark, the only light slicing in from the streetlamps. John was first aware of the stink, then noticed the two large skips.

Sherlock turned to them with an evil grin. “Oh, look, one each.”

“I hate you, you know,” John muttered. “Which one do you want?”

“Oh, no, not me, Lestrade. I’m investigating these footprints here.”

“So glad I got that promotion,” Lestrade grumbled.

Thankfully, only a few moments later Lestrade crowed and pulled the splintered edge of a large gilt frame from the trash. Sherlock glanced up from where he was crouched on the ground. “As I had assumed, the thief removed the painting from the frame to allow him to travel more easily. Now we know he came out this door.”

“So where did he go from here?” John said.

Instead of answering, Sherlock said, “John, come and see these prints.”

John waded to the side of the skip, but getting out proved more challenging than getting in. “Just a second,” he said, trying desperately to retain his dignity; a shorter man’s constant trial.

Sherlock carried on talking as though John was already beside him. “Footprint is eight inches long, narrow, so either a woman’s or a small man’s. A soft shoe with no heel. With the smell of rosin and the shape of the shoe, it would appear to be a ballet shoe. But look at the track – one foot directly in front of the other, leading with the toe rather than the heel. I’ve not seen prints like this before.”

John had managed to get one leg over the edge of the skip. “In a straight line? Like a tightrope walker?”

Sherlock froze, then looked up at him, his eyes sparking. “Say that again.”

“A tightrope –”

“No, shut up now.” Sherlock pulled out his phone and clicked madly through for a moment. John wondered what kind of data plan The House had set up for him, and hoped they could afford it.

John pulled himself over the side of the skip and dropped to the ground. As he felt the shock radiate up through his knees and legs, Sherlock looked up at the sky and shouted, “Come on John!” and ran off.

“Oh Christ,” John said as he pursued Sherlock down the alley, and saw him scaling a ladder up the side of one of the buildings, at least five stories tall. “Sherlock, wait-”

But Sherlock was off and sprinting across the rooftops, his long legs easily outpacing John. It was all he could do to keep Sherlock in his sights. He pushed his speed up. Then Sherlock dashed around an air conditioning unit, out of sight.

_God damn it, if he tries to tightrope walk, I’ll have to kill him personally before I’m fired_ , John thought as he rounded the corner. Then he put on an extra, terrified burst of speed when he saw Sherlock, pinned to the side of the unit by a small man all in black, hands around Sherlock’s throat.

_Shitshitshitshit_ ran the litany and prayer in John’s mind as he ran, his lungs piercing with pain, adrenaline singing through the large muscles in his legs. He grabbed his gun from his waistband, nearly fumbling it as he ran. He could see that Sherlock was fighting, and fighting hard, but the thief’s arms and hands never wavered as Sherlock punched them. Sherlock’s face was bright red, and as John got closer he could see the blue shade of Sherlock’s lips glow like neon. John’s lungs felt like fire as he smashed the butt of his gun against the back of the thief’s head, channelling all his fear and adrenaline into his arm. The man dropped like a stone.

A quick glance was enough to assure John that the thief was not getting up anytime soon, and he turned to Sherlock, his fingers shaking as they traced over Sherlock’s face and neck. “Sherlock, don’t talk, Jesus Christ you idiot, okay, swallow for me, again, okay, not bad, hyoid not broken, cricoid seems okay, just breathe, big deep breaths-”

Sherlock laughed, a bit breathlessly and rough sounding, but he laughed. “I’m – I’m okay, John, John, _John_!”

John barely heard the words, still frantically checking for damage, the post-adrenaline high turning into rage in his muscles, furious at the bruises already forming around Sherlock’s throat.

“John.” Sherlock’s hands came up to frame John’s face. John had just enough time to think, _His hands are the size of my entire head_ , when Sherlock kissed him, trembling slightly but gentle and soft.

John was aware only of a vague buzzing noise in his head, and a surrealistic view of Sherlock’s right eyebrow. Before he could react, Sherlock released him suddenly and stared at him. John watched numbly as Sherlock’s face hardened into stern lines.

“Ah. Straight. My – apologies. An erroneous conclusion based on insufficient data.” Sherlock stepped back, away from John, who was still too startled to speak or move. “Forget it. I will do the same.”

Sherlock rewrapped his scarf around his neck, hiding the darkening bruises, pulled out his phone and dialled. When he spoke, his voice was perfectly steady. “Lestrade, call the Czech consulate and let them know their defector from the Vzduch-Chodec Circus has been found, with the stolen painting. No, I don’t know if it’s damaged, we just found him.” He cracked an eye at John, then said, “You’d better bring an ambulance too, he seems to have hit his head on something.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is fraught with indecision, but makes three new friends, and a discovery.

All the way back to The House in the van, Sherlock was silent, his hands steepled under his chin, eyes closed. John recognized this as his ‘thinking pose’, and was grateful for it, as his own thoughts were a riot of confusion and indecision.

Sherlock had kissed him, no mistaking it, and no mistaking his intentions. If it were anyone else, he would have awkwardly explained he was straight and done his best to shrug off the incident, or laugh it off over a drink, and never ever ever mention it again. But this was Sherlock – a programmed amalgam of a detective, imposed into the mind and body of a God knows who volunteer. He wasn’t programmed to have feelings or sexual attraction for anyone, much less develop them for John. So what had happened?

Should he tell Mark? John groaned to himself at the consideration of the question. He imagined the conversation – _Hey, Mark, Sherlock tried to snog me, could he be glitching somehow?_ Or, _Maybe we could just delete that one minute out of the record of the day?_ He imagined Mark sniggering over it; then he imagined Mark not laughing but being alarmed. What if it meant Sherlock would have to be reprogrammed, or retired? John, selfish bastard that he was, couldn’t stand to contemplate that.

There was also the possibility that he would be fired or reassigned away from Sherlock, either as punishment or as a way to avoid future incidents. But from what he had heard about Anderson and the other handlers, they didn’t care enough about Sherlock to keep him safe from himself. There was something strong inside John that didn’t want anyone but himself handling Sherlock – _accompanying_ Sherlock, he thought, correcting even his own thoughts to avoid a double entendre. 

He couldn’t tell Molly about it either, for fear she would interpret it as John taking advantage of Sherlock. She liked Coventry, appreciated the vulnerability of the dolls. John was half thinking that she wouldn’t be quite wrong about that.

He had mates, friends from the army days, and from uni, but none of them could know about the nature of his job, the confidentiality of his work, and the issue was impossible to explain without that context.

_There is absolutely no one I can talk to about this_.

In the elevator, John watched Sherlock standing with his hands clasped behind his back, looking up at where the floor numbers would be in a normal elevator. Everything about his stance said closed, closed. John felt a pang of guilt while thinking, _He’s not real, don’t forget, he’s not real_.

“Sherlock…” he said, not sure what to say after that.

“I said forget it, John,” Sherlock snapped. “Delete it, if you will.”

John’s mouth went dry. “What?”

“Delete it.”

_Does he know?_ John thought frantically. Before he could formulate a response, Sherlock sighed impatiently and pointed to his head.

“This is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful, really useful. Anything I don’t need, or is irrelevant, I delete. Then I can get to the things that matter.”

_Is he a human that thinks he’s a computer, or a computer that thinks he’s human?_ “I-”

“I prefer not to dwell upon my mistakes, John.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” John said, and meant it.

Sherlock’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Yes. Well. Human error.”

+

John spent the next day trying desperately to follow Sherlock’s advice and failing miserably. When he was called in for a Scott engagement, he was relieved. Scott was so utterly unlike Sherlock, John hoped it would drive home the lesson he was trying to teach himself.

Scott immersed himself in his notes during the drive, and John spent the time looking at him without seeming to do so.

_See there, he looks like Sherlock, but he isn’t. It’s Scott. And Scott isn’t real either. He’s no more real than the characters in the video games you played when you were a kid. The only one who is close to being real is Coventry, and he’s just a blank slate who will walk out of here in five years._

_And then what will you do?_

John slammed the door in his mind on that thought, and turned to look out the window.

When they pulled up to Jesus College, John opened the side panel of the van to a teeming rainfall. Scott looked up from his notes, his brow furrowing. “Oh bother, look at that,” he said. “I left my brolly behind.”

“Just run for it,” John said. “The wet never hurt anyone.”

“You can’t stay in the van when it’s like this, you’ll catch your death.”

“I’m fine, don’t worry.”

“Nonsense. Come on, I’m sure there will be room in the lecture hall.” Scott tugged at John’s sleeve until he obeyed, the two of them pelting through the rain towards the College.

_What am I doing?_ John thought as he ran. He found himself justifying his action, rationalizing that he was there to accompany Scott, and it would be easier if he stayed in sight. Also Scott had invited him, and it didn’t seem important enough to make a fuss over it.

It turned out there wasn’t room in the lecture hall – it was fully occupied with students, all with laptops, notepads, pens, paper, even tiny recording devices. Scott seemed to not notice this at all as he wiped his wet hair away from his face. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said, checking his watch, “the lecture’s about an hour, and there’s generally questions afterwards, terribly dull usually, I’m afraid. I hope you won’t be too bored.”

“Not at all,” John said. “Go, you’re late,” but Scott was already making his way down to the lectern.

“Here,” said a voice next to him. John turned to see an older man standing next to him, holding some paper towels out to him.

“Oh, ta very much,” John said, gratefully wiping his face and hair.

“You his new Graduate Assistant?”

“Uh, yeah, just started.”

“You know any one of these students here would give their right arm for that job.”

“Yes. Well.” John didn’t quite know how to respond to that.

The older man held out his hand. “I’m Dr. Robin Ambidge, head of the Chemistry department.”

“John Watson,” John replied as he shook hands.

“We’re very grateful to have Professor Scott as a guest lecturer,” Ambidge continued. “Even for Oxford, his fees are pretty astronomical and finances are tight now. Fortunately we have an anonymous donor who sponsors his lectures. We usually have a lineup of students as far as the quad to hear him – undergraduates, graduates, the whole gamut. Written several papers that knocked the academic bigwigs on their arses. So young, too – what, is he thirty?”

“Uh, a little more than that, but not by much, I think.”

“Let you in on a little secret,” Ambidge nudged John conspiratorially. “I never miss his lectures either. Always learn something new. Oh, look, he’s starting.”

Indeed, there was a rustle of paper, the slight noise of the collected group of students sitting up and leaning forward as Scott took his place at the lectern.

“Sorry I’m late, ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “Got caught in the rain, was afraid I’d catch my death. But you know that chemists don’t die, they just fail to react.”

Laughter rose from the student body, and Scott ducked his head shyly. He looked up at John, cracked the smallest smile, and said, “Right, let’s begin.”

+

Three nights later, John found himself in the van heading to a private estate in Hampshire, outside of London; Vernet sitting opposite him, ignoring him entirely. John appreciated the silence, giving him time and space to think about the last few days.

When they arrived at the estate, Vernet picked up his case and descended from the van, walking swiftly towards the gate. John watched him go; such vigilance was not truly necessary with Vernet, but he usually kept his eyes on him until he was in the gate. _Just doing my job_.

To his surprise, Vernet stopped in his tracks a few yards from the gate, and turned back, giving the van and John a long, appraising look. Then he walked to the gate and spoke to the tuxedoed man standing there.

John watched, fascinated at the change in routine. Vernet was too far away for John to hear what was being said, but Vernet was clearly becoming more and more agitated. At one point he turned away from the gate and began to march back towards the van, only to be stopped by the man at the gate, who followed him with his hands in a conciliatory gesture. They spoke for a few minutes more.

Finally Vernet nodded curtly, and walked back to John. He stopped in front of John and said, crisply, “I have procured a seat for you in the hall.” He turned and strode back towards the gate. John gathered up his astonishment and his hanging jaw and followed.

Without looking back to see at John, Vernet continued towards a side door of the estate. John began to follow, but was gently and politely redirected by the tuxedoed man, who walked with John to the main door.

It was clearly a private estate, old money, old British nobility. The front entryway was like stepping into the past, or into a historical drama on telly – Edwardian furniture, heavy and dark with waxing, chandeliers dripping with glass and light. John was led to the east side of the house to a large hall, and he saw perhaps fifty neatly arranged chairs on the floor facing a large dais or stage at the far end of the room. Three chairs were placed on one side of the stage, facing out into the room.

Men wearing tuxedos and women in evening gowns milled about the room, chatting and sipping champagne. John, in his jeans, plaid shirt and cardigan, none too new, felt distinctly underdressed, and he was sure he was not imagining the disdainful looks he was getting from some of the people in the room.

“Here we are, sir,” said the man who had led John in, as he placed another chair at the back of the hall. “We really are at capacity tonight, but Monsieur Vernet insisted, and he so rarely makes requests. Champagne, sir?”

“Oh. Uh, no thanks, I’m fine.” Utterly flatfooted and confused, John sat in the chair and tried his best to disappear into the woodwork, and eventually the stares towards him faded away.

After a few moments, a man rang a tiny bell, and the people took their seats. John saw that the hall was truly full; not a single chair was unoccupied in the neat rows, and his chair was very clearly placed as an afterthought.

_What the hell is going on?_ he thought, then a door opened to the side of the dais, and two women and a man entered, each carrying a stringed instrument. They were greeted by a smattering of applause.

The three musicians took their seats, then the side door opened again, and Vernet entered. Now the applause was strong and enthusiastic, but Vernet ignored it utterly. He was carrying a violin under his arm. John suddenly realized that the case Vernet had been carrying all this time was a violin case, and laughed at himself for thinking it contained a rifle.

Vernet did not sit, but stood in the centre of the dais, looking lithe and sinewy as he raised the instrument to his chin and placed the bow. He glanced at the other musicians, lifted his chin slightly as a signal, and began to play.

John had no knowledge of classical music except for movie soundtracks, but was immediately struck dumb by this piece. It began softly with long drawn out notes, almost tentative, but graceful. Vernet’s eyes had closed as soon as he began to play, his body moving as though gently coaxing the notes from his violin. Then the mood of the music transitioned, with the violin seeming to ask questions that were answered by the other instruments. The pace of the music increased, and John was suddenly reminded of a summer rainfall, and being a child, running to find shelter from the rain and laughing while he ran.

John lost himself in the music, and could not take his eyes off Vernet. When the music stopped, he began to applaud, but stopped after only two claps when he realized he was the only one doing so. A few people looked back to glare at him.

“We don’t clap between movements, sir,” murmured the man from the gate, who John only now realized was beside him.

“Oh. Sorry. Thank – sorry,” John whispered, feeling heat rise in his face, but then the music began again and John was lost once more.

He was not aware how much time had passed when the music ended, Vernet took the violin down from his chin, the man from the gate whispered, “Now,” and the room exploded with applause. John clapped until his hands were sore and tingling, his face sore from grinning, and Vernet looked up, searched the room with his eyes, saw John, and smiled.

+

Over his brief tenure as Coventry’s handler, John had learned that while Sherlock’s, Vernet’s and Scott’s engagements were sporadic, William’s were as regular as clockwork – every Sunday afternoon, to the same little cottage in Sussex Downs. William was always anxious about being late (but never was), was always concerned that he looked well (but always did), stayed for almost exactly two hours, and always looked a bit sad as he left.

This Sunday was a clear, bright blue day, warm with early summer in the air. John leaned against the side of the van as he waited for William, tipping his face up to the sun and closing his eyes. It was the kind of day when he could get sunburn if he stayed out for too long, but it was too nice to go into the stuffy van and stare at nothing but the monitors and the back of the driver’s head, the driver who never spoke.

Over the last two weeks his anxiety about Sherlock’s behaviour had lessened. Obviously he was spending a great deal of time with each of Coventry’s personalities, and they were programmed to trust him. Scott and Vernet had included him in their activities, and probably regarded him as a friend, or close colleague.

Sherlock’s kiss was still a niggling worry in the back of his mind, but John reasoned Sherlock was such a unique personality, and was clearly not programmed with social graces. He had probably expressed his gratitude in a way that society would generally frown upon, but didn’t realize it was wrong until he saw the look on John’s face. No harm done.

_Right? Right._

“John!” he heard. His eyes snapped open and he saw William at the garden gate, beckoning to him.

_And we’re four for four_ , John thought as he trotted towards the gate. “What’s up, William?”

“Oh John, she’s having such a good day, and I thought this would be a perfect time for you to meet her. D’you mind? I’d really like you to meet her.”

“All right,” John said. He had always been curious about the older woman who clearly lived in the cottage. He wiped his feet on the rough mat by the door and came in.

William led him through a low door that betrayed the age of the house into a cozy living room, the smell of lavender and wool and tea sunk deep into the upholstery of the furniture. A petite white haired woman was standing by the fireplace, staring at the pictures on the mantelpiece. As John and William entered the room, she looked up and fixed John with a sharp and curious eye.

“I don’t know you,” she said.

“Of course you don’t, Mummy, I haven’t introduced you yet,” William said cheerfully. “Mummy, I’d like you to meet my friend John; John, this is my mother, Genevieve Holmes.”

_Well, this is one for the books_ , John thought, but crossed the room and shook Mrs. Holmes’ hand politely. “Very nice to meet you, ma’am.”

Mrs. Holmes tilted her head to the side and appraised John carefully. “You’re not Siger,” she said at last.

A pained expression crossed William’s face. “No, Mummy,” he said softly. “Father died, several years ago.”

“Siger’s much taller than you,” Mrs. Holmes said, and turned back to gaze at the pictures.

William turned to John, his hands fluttering nervously. “She gets confused, poor thing,” he whispered. “There’s a nurse, full time, and I come when I can, but sometimes she doesn’t know me either.” He turned back to Mrs. Holmes, his face brightening. “Look, Mummy, your tea’s gone cold, let me get you some more. John, you as well?”

“I’m all right, thank you, William.”

“Be right back then.” William ducked through the doorway again.

_Alzheimer’s_ , John thought as he looked at Mrs. Holmes. Moderate to severe, if this was considered a good day. He suddenly understood – a lonely old woman, probably rich, with a son that couldn’t actually visit for one reason or another, and arranged for a ‘son’ to visit regularly, brighten her day a bit, and she wouldn’t know the difference. John had no idea whether to be sad or angry at the situation, but decided that Mrs. Holmes deserved someone to chat to, no matter who it was.

“Lovely day today,” he said. “Will you and William go for a walk today, do you think?”

“I don’t want to walk today,” she said sharply, then she softened and grew a bit distant. “I’m tired.”

“Do you want to sit down?”

She turned to look at him again, and confusion flitted across her face again. “Who are you?”

“I’m John. I’m a friend of your son’s.”

“That’s not my son,” she snapped.

John felt immersed in surreality for a moment. Was this the Alzheimer’s, or did she actually realize this man wasn’t her son?

Mrs. Holmes turned fully to him, and spoke quietly, confidentially. “Sometimes I think it’s my William, but then I realize it’s not. They look very like, but the nose is all wrong.”

“Mrs. Holmes-”

“I nursed him for nearly two years, Siger, you think I don’t know my own son?” she snapped. Then she blinked, and calmed somewhat. “I’m sorry, you’re not Siger, I know. That’s Siger.” She turned to the mantle and pointed to a picture of a handsome, tall man, looking dapper in a tuxedo, with a much younger Mrs. Holmes in an evening gown beside him.

“You were a good looking couple,” John said, truthfully.

“Oh, Siger was so handsome,” she sighed, clearly lost in the memories of the past. “William got his cheekbones. Mycroft got his hairline, God bless him.” She pointed to another picture; Mr. and Mrs. Holmes in the garden, middle aged, with two boys in their school uniforms, one a sour faced teen, the other a small child with wild, unruly black hair. “There’s my wee William, my baby. Mycroft is my eldest, seven years between him and William. William was – a surprise, we called it then. Mycroft is about fifteen here, he had such a terrible time with his weight in his teens, poor love. He comes sometimes but he’s so busy-”

“Here’s some tea, Mummy,” William said, bustling in from the kitchen. “Now look, don’t let this go cold too. Sit ye down, Mother, there’s a dear.”

William led her to a comfortable chair and fussed over her and her tea, but John didn’t hear. He was staring at the picture of the teenaged boy – fatter here, but absolutely recognizable as the man he had met only once, in the office on the top floor, the man who had assigned him to Coventry – the owner of The House.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vernet plays Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, Concert #2 in G minor, “Summer”, Allegro non molto – Allegro


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When an old man like me is preparing to do some painful truth-telling, he doesn’t like to drink alone.”
> 
> Mycroft tells John the truth.

As soon as John and William returned to The House, and Coventry was wiped and returned to the living area, John stormed to the administration area and leaned on the receptionist’s desk.

“I need to talk to him. Now,” he said firmly.

“He’s not available right now, Doctor Watson,” she replied coolly.

“Tell him,” John said, trying and failing not to grit his teeth, “that Mummy asked me to say hello to Mycroft.”

She gazed at him steadily for a moment, then her phone rang. Without breaking her gaze, she answered it and listened silently. After a moment, she said, “Yes, sir,” then hung up and gestured to the elevator.

When the elevator door opened at the top floor, he saw the man he now knew as Mycroft standing at the bar, pouring two largish slugs of scotch. As John entered, Mycroft turned and gestured towards the sofa.

“Doctor Watson, please have a seat. And a drink.”

“Not really in the mood for either,” John replied tersely.

Mycroft sat, and John noticed that the man’s tie was loosened, his hair slightly ruffled. He took a healthy swallow of his drink.

“I could fire you, of course. For your… impertinence, your interference, and any number of other reasons that come to mind. You recall the terms of your contract with us?”

“Of course,” John said, steely.

“You would sit in the very chair where you have seen Coventry sit. Your memories of your time at The House would be wiped. Replaced with a convenient fiction – a long illness, perhaps – something to fill out the resume, should you search for other work. You would retain no memories of this place, of these people, of the program as a whole.”

John swallowed, and said, “Would you take a bit more off the top then?”

Mycroft laughed, but there was no true amusement in the laugh. “The bravery of the soldier. If you wish to resign still – again – you are welcome. But I won’t fire you. In fact I’d like to encourage you to stay.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Mycroft held John in a sharp gaze, “you are the best handler I’ve seen, and certainly better than I could have wished for for Coventry. He is performing better than ever with you at his side, his injuries are next to none, but for the recent choking incident – of course I heard about that, but he would have been dead if not for you. You have been more than his handler; you have been his friend. Am I correct?”

John clenched his fist, then nodded tersely.

“Then please do me the favour and sit down. I will tell you everything you wish to know.”

After a moment’s pause, John crossed the room and sat on the edge of the sofa. Mycroft pushed the scotch towards him with a single finger, then bent over his drink, elbows on his knees. John shook his head at the drink.

“Please, Doctor Watson. When an old man like me is preparing to do some painful truth-telling, he doesn’t like to drink alone.”

John stared at Mycroft for a long time, then picked up the glass and took a small drink, feeling the expensive scotch burn its way down his esophagus. Mycroft rolled his own glass between his palms. John heard the clink of his ring against the glass, and waited.

“Doctor Watson, what I’m about to tell you I have told no one else in this world. No one knows this. But I am telling you this, against my best judgement.” He looked up and smiled a smile that did not reach his eyes, then sighed.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes, but you know that already, of course. 

“My brother was born when I was seven. No one expected our mother to have another pregnancy, but so it was. So he was a bit spoiled, the baby, the miracle child, don’t you see.

“Do you know, I always thought he was slow, and a bit dull, until I went away to school and realized that my standards were quite, quite high. I was shifted to Year Three very quickly, but realized that my four year old brother could run rings around children thrice his age. He was clever, and spoiled, and always went in ten different directions at once. Drove his teachers mad.

“He ended up reading Chemistry at Cambridge, but didn’t show up to most of his classes. Passed near the top of the class anyway. If he’d showed up more, he would have been first, but he didn’t care. Spent much of the time just rattling around, dabbling in one thing or another. Never made any friends, never dated, nothing.

“The one thing that held his attention for any amount of time was unsolved cases in the papers. It started with a case when he was a child, a young man drowned in a pool. He obsessed over it for years. Kept showing up at the Met with new theories. Got banned, eventually. At one point after uni, he said he wanted to be a detective, but he didn’t want to train as an officer. Felt it was beneath him, I suppose. It was, frankly. He would get interested in some case, tack the papers all over the walls, try to solve it by himself. There was one fellow, an Irishman, I think, that got off a huge burglary charge. That case fascinated him for months. I think he actually followed the man for a while, silly boy.

“He dabbled in drugs, which he thought he kept hidden from me, but I knew. I tried to intervene but he resented it so. I sometimes wonder if I had tried harder he…”

Mycroft stopped, and took another slug of scotch. John felt a dark shadow of sympathetic dread growing in his gut.

After a long, long moment, Mycroft spoke again, his eyes turned downward, his voice low. “Sh…” Mycroft cleared his throat and began again. “My brother committed suicide four years ago. He never gave any signs of his intention, he just…” Mycroft’s voice went rough, and went silent.

“I’m sorry,” John said helplessly.

“Mmm.” Mycroft pursed his lips, then took a deep breath and sat up. “Mummy was… fortunately… too far gone to truly understand that he was dead. I didn’t push it, felt it was better if she didn’t know. She didn’t come to the funeral. It was just myself, and the funeral director.”

John thought of the full church when Mary died, the odd comfort of it, and felt a bite of pity. “So you had them program William to visit her.”

Mycroft’s lip twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite a frown. “Not exactly.

“My brother was at heart a scientist, and was fascinated by innovation. When I bought the technology from the Rossum Corporation, I told him about it and he was entranced. He enthusiastically consented to be a test subject, have his personality… downloaded.”

John felt the pity shift into horror. “You… copied him?”

“We tried. The best technician in the world worked on it. The Americans had done something like this, copied a woman’s personality, quite successfully. The same technician came over to do it, bright young man; a bit unstable, but genius generally is, isn’t it?”

Mycroft smiled then, softly and sadly. “It wouldn’t fit on a single wedge. Insufficient memory space. The technician was forced to split the copy over not two, not three, but four wedges. After he died, it made more sense, somehow. Too much personality for one body.”

“Then he died, and the wedges stayed in storage. I couldn’t bear to look at them, think about them. Then a young man came in as a volunteer who looked startlingly like my brother. Tall, thin – the nose wasn’t quite right, his was a bit more aquiline – but the eyes were just like-” Mycroft paused, clearly struggling to maintain his nonchalant air.

“So we took the separate wedges and developed them into full personalities. My brother’s full name was – have you guessed it, Doctor Watson?” Mycroft lifted a single finger. “William.” A second finger. “Sherlock.” A third. “Scott.” A fourth. “And Vernet – our mother’s maiden name. I thought using Holmes would be too… indiscreet.”

John’s mouth was dry, and he swallowed some scotch, feeling the expensive burn in his throat. “Are you telling me – Mr. Holmes, is Coventry your brother?”

Mycroft smiled sadly, and John was shocked at his eyes – old, old, old. “No, Doctor Watson. Sherlock is my brother. William is my brother. Vernet is my brother. Scott is my brother. All of them together. The only way I could keep him was by breaking him apart.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets a horrifying new case, but only John understands how horrifying it really is.

“Anything yet, John?”

“Nope, nothing.”

A pause, a shuffling of paper. “I hate fraud cases. Dull.”

“Preaching to the choir, Sherlock.”

John wondered idly if Lestrade was punishing them both for taking off after the tightrope walker, or Sherlock for the search of the skip for the picture frame. This case was all paperwork: no outside work, no running, not even any interviews where Sherlock could embarrass a witness or suspect. Just searching through mountains of accounts looking for shifty charitable donations that were actually money laundering schemes.

“This is ridiculous. We’ve been at this for hours and nothing.”

“I hate to break it to you, Sherlock, but we’ve only been at this for an hour and twenty minutes.”

“That’s over an hour.”

“Just… keep looking.”

They hadn’t even lifted the accounts – they were all public record. At the same time, he was thankful for the quieter case; it was giving him time to process the information he now had about the man sitting next to him.

Though two weeks had passed, he was still reeling from Mycroft’s revelations about his brother. It was entirely eerie to consider that the man sitting next to him was not a created personality, but rather was – had been – a living, breathing man, who possessed not only incredible deductive skills, but all the other skills he had witnessed in the other personalities.

Furthermore, each of the separate personalities trusted John in a way that he was certain the original man had trusted no other person.

On the bright side, Sherlock seemed to have put the embarrassment of the kiss behind them and was acting as though nothing had happened. The situation was weird enough already without adding any other complications to it. It was a relief, really.

_Right? Right._

“Coventry,” Sherlock muttered.

John’s head whipped up and around to Sherlock. “What?”

“Here, a donation of five thousand pounds to Coventry Cathedral… oh, no. That’s actually a true donation. Damn it.”

John tried to bring his heartbeat back down to normal as he said, “Yes, curse the philanthropic cheater.” He looked back down to the file in front of him but didn’t see anything on it for a moment. _That. Was. Surreal_ , he thought. After a moment he could refocus his eyes, then squinted and looked again. “Sherlock, look.”

Sherlock leaned over to peer at the entry John was pointing at. “Ten thousand pounds, Brook Foundation… yes, that’s it, John!” He strode to the door of the interview room, opened it and bellowed, “Lestrade!”

“Sherlock, for God’s sake, his office is on another floor. I’ll text him,” John said, pulling out his phone.

Lestrade walked into the room ten minutes later, pulling on his coat and speaking on his mobile. “Yeah – yeah – yes, I’m with him now. I’ll be there in twenty. Yeah.” He disconnected the call and looked at them with a wry smile. “Glad you cracked this one, but it’ll have to wait.”

“There’s been a murder,” Sherlock said; not asking, but stating as fact.

“Body found about two hours ago. It’s not my case, it’s Dimmock’s, but he says it’s a weird one, and Dimmock called to see if you were available.”

John watched Sherlock light up – there was no other phrase to use except the hackneyed expression. A tiny, childish smile flickered around his mouth, and John could swear that Sherlock’s eye colour changed from blue to green, but that may have been a trick of the light. “Where?” Sherlock said, and John could tell that he was working to school his voice into a calm tone.

“Right in front of St. Bart’s Hospital, if you can believe it. Must have dumped the body before dawn. They’ve secured the area, but we have to hurry, the press will be sniffing about soon.”

“Weird how?” John said.

Lestrade shrugged. “Dunno, Dimmock wouldn’t say. Shall we?”

Sherlock spent the whole trip in the front passenger seat of Lestrade’s car pestering Lestrade for details: details about Dimmock’s character, career path, education, and intelligence quotient; the names of the people on his team; who had found the body and how; and so on. Lestrade answered patiently for the first ten minutes (“All right, I guess,” “He made DI in 2011, I think,” “Not sure,” “Turner is on forensics,” “I don’t know, I told you,” “I don’t know yet,” “Shut the hell up, Sherlock,”) then threatened to either dump him on the side of the road or stuff his scarf in his mouth.

They arrived at the scene, illuminated by flashing blue lights and framed by yellow tape. Lestrade showed his credentials, assured the duty cop that John and Sherlock were allowed in, authorized by DI Dimmock, then lifted the tape and waved them through. There was a small tent erected on the pavement in front of the hospital, which John surmised was to protect the scene from both contamination and from prying eyes. Dimmock met them outside and Lestrade introduced them.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Holmes,” Dimmock said. “Greg’s told me about your skills, I really hope that-”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Sherlock said, pulling on a pair of latex gloves while waving Dimmock’s words away like a pesky fly. “Get on with it.”

“Uh. Right,” Dimmock said. “Well, female, approximately-”

“No, don’t say anything, just show me.” And Sherlock swept into the tent, John, Lestrade and Dimmock following close behind.

The tent was full of the smell of the dead – copper and the beginnings of sweet rot. John’s sense memory took him back to the field hospital in Afghanistan for a moment, and he shook his head to clear it. Then he looked down at the body and stopped breathing.

She was young and she had been pretty, with long brown curling hair. She was wearing a black pencil skirt and a white button down top, with half the buttons undone, revealing her collarbones and the edge of a lacy bra. John pressed his hand over his mouth to keep his distress from leaking out in a moan as he stared at her face, with the round black hole at her temple.

He had last seen her nude and weeping, chained to a headboard, when she had called herself Beatrix.

“Magdalen,” Sherlock said.

“What?” John squeaked out.

“Note the spelling,” Sherlock said, pointing at her breastbone. John looked down and saw what was carved into her upper chest, just under her clavicle – MAGDALEN.

_Oh God_ , John thought. _Ohgodohgodohgod_. The tent seemed to fill with a humming noise, with Sherlock’s voice mumbling underneath it.

“An unusual variant on Magdalene, from the Greek or Hebrew.” Sherlock was circling the body, taking pictures with his phone. “Murderer used a knife with a short blade to carve the word. Now, is it her name, or a reference to the Biblical Mary Magdalene, with the seven demons-”

_I’ve got to get him out of here. Back to The House. Now._

“Sherlock,” John said, interrupting Sherlock mid-sentence.

“She’s a graduate student, studying medieval literature at… no. Wait. A nurse. Accident and Emergency. Or a surgical assistant-”

_Both right_ , John thought, and said louder, “Sherlock!”

Sherlock glared at him. “Are you going to be ill, John? Then go outside and do it and come back.”

“No, I… I need to talk with you, please.”

“Talk, then,” Sherlock said as he turned back to the body.  

“No, in private. Seriously, please, Sherlock.” He wasn’t sure where the van was, but if he could just get Sherlock in a cab, back to the Met, radio for the van… The important thing was to get Sherlock away. “It’s very important, Sherlock. Please.”

Sherlock sighed impatiently. “Can’t it wait, John?”

“No,” John said, inserting some Captain Watson into his voice.

John saw the muscles jumping in Sherlock’s jaw, but Sherlock stood and walked out with John, ignoring the looks of astonishment on Lestrade’s and Dimmock’s faces.

They walked to a spot on the pavement, out of earshot of the officers swarming the building. Sherlock turned to him and snapped, “So what was so dreadfully important that you had to pull me away from the most interesting case in months?”

John flushed a little at Sherlock’s anger, then swallowed it down and reminded himself of his purpose – keep Sherlock safe. He focused on that, and blurted, “I’m hungry – dim sum?”

There was a long silence that crackled and hummed. “You pulled me away from a murder scene to ask me to dinner?” Sherlock said thinly.

John stared up at Sherlock in shock. “I – I’m hungry – dim sum?” he repeated, unable to help the upturn in his voice, hating the tentative note in his voice.

Sherlock glared at him, his lips twisting. Then he stepped in, getting into John’s personal space, and spat out, low, “Is this because of that last case? Is this some kind of childish revenge for my error?”

“No,” John said weakly, “no, I just-”

“You said you would delete it,” Sherlock said from between clenched teeth.

“So did you, but clearly you didn’t,” John snapped before he could help himself.

For a moment John thought his skin was going to peel off from the force of Sherlock’s glare. Then Sherlock simply turned and walked back towards the tent.

John felt his heart thumping in his chest, so hard his body rocked with it. He felt unable to move for a moment, unable to think. Sherlock had always answered to the call and response, always followed him – what had happened?

He forced himself to close his eyes, breathe deeply, calming himself down. If John couldn’t convince him to leave right now, he would just have to stay close and protect him, let him follow through with the case until he could draw him away somehow. He’d have to go and apologize to Sherlock convincingly, then not let him out of his sight. He took one more fortifying breath, opened his eyes, and turned back to the tent.

As he opened the flap of the tent, Lestrade and Dimmock turned to look at him. “What the hell was that all about?” Lestrade said.

John ignored him and looked around. “Where’s Sherlock?” he said.

Lestrade furrowed his brows in confusion. “I thought he was with you,” he said.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock disappears, and John calls in help to find him.

John stared at Lestrade for a moment drawn out with growing horror, then turned and pushed his way out of the tent. He scanned the area for Sherlock’s silhouette, for a glimpse of his flapping coat, but saw only busy police officers. Running to the police tape, he asked the officers holding the perimeter if they had seen them; he asked at least five before he realized how fruitless this was – if Sherlock did not want to be seen, no mere junior police officer would see him.

He stood still for a moment, trying to think, trying to think like Sherlock – where would he go? If not back to the case, if he were angry, where would he go?

And if he were glitching? He could be anywhere, in danger and unaware of the danger.

John realized he couldn’t do this alone. He ducked past the police tape, hid on the far side of the ambulance garage and pulled out his phone. Mark picked up on the third ring.

“John, mate, to what do I owe the pleasure? I can’t believe you’re calling to invite me for a pint with you and Sherlock.”

“Mark, listen please. I need you to put a trace on Sherlock.”

“Did he get away from you at last? He does that, you know. This is the longest any of his handlers have gone without losing him, I was thinking of starting a pool.”

John slammed his hand against the brick in impatience. “Mark, I’m serious. Trace him.”

“Calm yourself, John. He does this all the time.”

“You don’t-” John found himself shouting, and reined in his temper. “Mark, we were called to a crime scene, to a murder, and it’s Magdalen, Magdalen’s dead, not ten metres from where I’m standing.”

The joking tone dropped immediately from Mark’s voice. “What? Are you shitting me?”

“No, she’s dead, and-” John decided to not mention the carving of her codename on her body for the time, “- and I tried to get Sherlock to leave and he didn’t answer to the call and response, he got pissed at me and walked off, and I can’t find him so _get that trace going_ , Mark. Now.”

He could hear muffled crashes on the other end of the phone, as Mark obviously dropped whatever toy he had been playing with and moved to the computer. “Okay, shit, okay, hang on. Fuck. Fuck, boot up goddamn you. Okay, where were you when he took off?”

“St. Bart’s Hospital – Smithfield. Hurry.”

“Okay, but try to calm down because this isn’t easy, and it’s not fast. His chip’s GPS is low range, so it takes a while to pick it up. If his heartbeat goes up it’s easier to track. Where’s your van?”

“Back at the Yard.”

“Okay, I’ll page him to come to Bart’s and wait instructions.” Mark was silent for a moment, while John rubbed the back of his neck in agitation. “John, is – is there any sign of Nick? Her handler?”

“Christ, I hadn’t thought – no. Just her. Do you think…?”

“I don’t want to think about it.” Mark paused again. “She had a nursing engagement, she was going to assist at a heart surgery… How did she…”

John swallowed. “Gunshot, close range, temple.”

“Jesus. Jesus. I don’t want to… Okay, hang on, here we go.” Mark was silent again, clearly reading the transmission from Sherlock’s chip. “Um, well, I’m still showing him in the same basic area, still Smithfield, so he hasn’t gone far. Heartbeat is level, so I don’t think immediate danger, but fuck it’s hard to trace when… Huh.”

John waited for a moment for the thought that came behind that “Huh,” but nothing. He clenched the fist not holding the phone and said carefully, “Mark? What is it?”

“It’s just… The trace isn’t perfect, you know, but it still shows him there. At St. Bart’s.”

“Can’t you narrow it down at all?”

“Only to about a hundred metre radius. He’s there, John. Could he be inside the hospital?”

John looked up at the huge wall of the side of the building in disbelief. “Jesus Christ, Mark, do you know how big Bart’s is? I qualified here, there’s hundreds of rooms, hundreds of storage closets, thousands of places to hide, you might as well tell me ‘He’s somewhere in the London Underground’, I’d have as much of a chance…”

Then John ran out of voice, ran out of words, because as he looked up the side of the hospital, he could see in the murky light of sunset a silhouette up on the roof; a silhouette of hair blowing in the wind and the sharp collar of a coat.

He vaguely heard Mark’s voice, shrill and hollow through the phone: “… I can only do so much, John, just start looking, I can send other people, fuck, I’ll come right now and help-”

“I see him,” John said into the phone. “Send the van, I’ll call you.” He shut off the phone without looking away from Sherlock, then ran into the building.

He hadn’t been in Bart’s in years, and much had changed, but staircases do not move in building renovations. He quickly found the central stairwell and ran up to the rooftop.

Before he opened the door to the roof, he paused and forced himself to breathe, to calm down, bring his heartbeat back down from thundering. It wouldn’t do to barge in on Sherlock, startle him, upset him enough to run away again. He took one more deep breath, then opened the door.

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the roof, facing inwards, his back towards the setting sun. His long hands were lying on his thighs, his back slumped slightly.

“Sherlock,” John said, softly, from the door.

Sherlock looked up and nodded. “John. I wondered if you would find me here.”

John walked slowly towards Sherlock, as though approaching a spooked horse. “You okay?”

Sherlock hummed, a vaguely affirmative sound. “I come up here sometimes, to think. It’s quiet up here.”

“Yes, it is,” John said, moving closer. “May I sit with you?”

Sherlock’s long hand extended to his right in invitation, and John sat. He began to calm somewhat; it didn’t seem as though Sherlock wanted to jump, or otherwise hurt himself – perhaps he did just want to be quiet for a time.

“I saw you looking for me,” Sherlock said. John heard both calm and an edge to his voice.

“Did you?”

“Yes. I can see the crime scene from here.” He flicked his head behind him, and John turned to look. He felt a wave of vertigo as he realized how high up they were, then saw the blue evidence tent and the officers walking around, looking like dolls. He gulped and faced forward again.

“Why were you looking for me?” Sherlock said.

John looked at him with amazement. “I was worried about you, you git. When you didn’t go back to the tent I got …worried.”

“I saw you checking the perimeter, then I lost sight of you for a while. Where did you go?”

“Just… I stepped away to think where you might have gone. Then I looked up.”

Sherlock smiled. “Best way to look for evidence everyone else has missed – just look up. I’ll make a detective of you yet, John.”

John felt a wash of pleasure at the compliment. “Sherlock, I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just…” He struggled with his words, trying to think of how to explain to a man who could detect a lie at fifty paces. Suddenly he realized that there was no real need to lie. “This case – that girl – it freaked me out. More than any other has. I don’t know why-” (A small lie, but he could get away with it) “-but it got to me and I just… I needed to get away, and wanted to get you away too. I’m sorry, I was stupid about it but I wasn’t thinking right.”

Sherlock turned at stared piercingly at John, and John stayed still and allowed Sherlock to analyze him. After a moment, Sherlock nodded small and turned away. “I couldn’t read her,” Sherlock said quietly. “I was getting too much input from her and it was contradictory and I couldn’t sort it out. I don’t understand it. That’s never happened before.” Sherlock sighed and slumped, pressing his hands into his face.

“Are you tired?” John said.

“I can’t remember when I slept last,” Sherlock said, his voice muffled by his hands.

_What’s it like for him, when he becomes Coventry?_ John thought. _Does Sherlock sleep while Coventry walks?_

John took a deep breath, and dared. “Do you think… Would you like a treatment?”

There was a long pause, during which John’s heart stopped and raced, and stopped and raced again. Then Sherlock sat up and took his hands from his face.

“Yes. Yes, that would be… good.”

John let out a huge breath, and stood and held out his hand to Sherlock. Sherlock looked up at him, and John noticed that his eyes were light blue in the gloom. Sherlock reached up and put his hand in John’s, and used it to stand. He staggered a bit, and John quickly moved beside him to support him. “Come on then,” he said.

Sherlock leaned nearly all of his weight on John, stumbling as they moved towards the door. “John Watson,” he mumbled.

“That’s me,” John said.

Sherlock stopped and looked at John, weariness creasing his face around the eyes. “Doctor/soldier John Watson,” he said, nearly slurring with exhaustion. “Are you on the side of the angels, John?”

John looked at him in confusion. “I’d like to think so,” he replied. “Aren’t you?”

Sherlock grinned in a way that was both wolfish and weary, then turned away, and they headed towards the door.

+

“Jesus Christ, John, I’ve been tearing my hair out here!” Mark snapped as soon as the elevator doors opened. “Just, ‘I see him’, then you hang up without saying another goddamn word and-” Mark’s tirade shut off as he became aware of Sherlock’s presence, and how he was leaning on John. “Are you hurt, Sherlock?” he said, his voice softening.

“No, no,” Sherlock said, waving the concern off with a flap of his hand. “Just… tired. Need a treatment.”

“Right away, Sherlock, just have a seat,” Mark said.

John helped Sherlock to sit in the chair and to lean back into the headrest. He started to step back and was surprised to find that Sherlock was still gripping his hand, with a strength surprising in someone so clearly exhausted. “Can I take a rain check on that dim sum, John?” Sherlock said with a small smile.

“All right,” John said.

Sherlock closed his eyes and let go of John’s hand. As the chair tilted back, John heard Sherlock mutter, “… on the side of the angels…”, then the chair hummed with power, Sherlock’s body tensed all over, then relaxed completely into the chair.

Mark’s breath came out in a whoosh. “God, what a night. Was he hurt?”

“No, not at all.”

“Thank fuck. I’d like to run some diagnostics, so I’ll do them now if he doesn’t need to see Molly right away. You better go upstairs and talk to the big man, he wanted a briefing right away.”

John realized with a start that he had not thought of Mycroft through this whole crisis and how he would react to the news of Sherlock’s behaviour. “All right. We’ll have a drink later, yeah?”

“You got it, bud. Jesus, what a night.”

John rode the elevator to the top floor, wishing desperately for a coffee. When the door opened, Mycroft was sitting at the desk but his head whipped around immediately. “Doctor Watson, thank you for coming up so quickly.” He strode over to the sofa set, gesturing John over in a way that brooked no argument. “Where was he?”

“On the roof.”

John was not prepared for the sight of Mycroft going deadly pale and silent. Something clicked into place for John. “Oh God. That’s how he committed suicide, didn’t he? Jumped off a roof?”

“Of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. Yes.”

“Jesus,” John said. _Thank God I didn’t know that before, I would have died of the panic._ “He was just sitting, Mycroft. Not standing, not threatening to… He said he liked to go there to be quiet. Just an old memory of a place, I think. Mark’s running diagnostics now.”

“Yes. Good. Well.” Mycroft was still clearly rattled, then pulled himself together. “The murder, Doctor Watson. Please tell me everything, with as much detail as you can recall.”

“Um, right. Well, DI Lestrade brought us to this murder case which had just been called in, over at St. Bart’s, and the victim was… it was Magdalen.”

“You recognized her.”

“Well, yes, but the murderer knew who she was here too. This wasn’t random.”

“How do you know?”

“The murderer had carved her name into her chest.”

“Jenny?”

“What?” John said, confused.

“She was installed with a personality named Jenny. A nurse. On her way to assist at a heart replacement surgery of a prominent philanthropist.”

“Oh. No, it said Magdalen.”

Mycroft sat back in his seat, pressing his palms together at his lips. John shivered a little, having seen Sherlock make the same gesture. “That is… disconcerting,” Mycroft said.

“That’s all you can say?” John snapped. “The girl’s dead.”

“I realize that, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft barked back, then visibly brought himself under control. “It’s clear that the killer is aware of The House and its activities. We will simply have to shut down until he is found. We will immediately end all current engagements, even the long term ones. I’ll have them come in, get all of them accounted for, and they will stay in The House for the interim. Our clients will be disappointed, but…” Mycroft waved a hand, dismissing their disappointment.

“So… just wait? For the killer to be found?”

“Well, yes.” Mycroft frowned at John. “Why are you smiling?”

“You forget, Mycroft,” John said, feeling the grin split his face, post-adrenaline making him smile more broadly than usual. “You could wait for the Met to solve the case – in their own time – if at all.”

“Or?”

“Or you could get the world’s only consulting detective on the job, and solve it a hell of a lot faster.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened. “You’re not suggesting…”

“I am. Lock everyone else up, but let Sherlock loose on the case. He’ll solve it, you know he will.”

“But after this evening – the roof – how can you-”

“I’ll stay with him at all times. Get us a safe house in London, people to watch the door; then let him work. He’ll be safe, and he’ll do it.”

Mycroft stared at him for a long moment, then pursed his lips. “There’s wisdom in that,” he said grudgingly.

“But, Mycroft,” John said, more quietly, more seriously. “He can’t solve it with half the data. He needs to know… everything. We have to tell him.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock learns the truth.

“You’re positive?”

“Absolutely,” Mark said. “I’ve run diagnostics until I can’t see straight. On Sherlock, on Coventry. There’s no glitch.”

Mycroft looked unconvinced. Mark sighed and adopted a professorial tone to his voice. “Look, it was a habit of his before… before, to go up there, right? So it’s part of the download. Habits, mannerisms, vocal tics, everything comes with it. With the created personas we build that stuff from the ground up, but with the downloads, it comes with. Even the stuff that drives you crazy.”

“Oh dear,” Mycroft sighed.

Mark stole a glance at Mycroft while he worked. “So… Sherlock really was your brother?”

Mycroft smiled, a prim, sad little smile. “I’m afraid so.”

Mark shook his head. “Wild.”

“What about the call and response, Mark?” John said. “Why didn’t he respond to it?”

“Best I can figure is that he was too into the case to listen to you properly. You started with the dim sum bit, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Next time, if he’s stressed and distracted, go right for the closer, the ‘do you trust me’ bit. Works every time.”

“Couldn’t have mentioned that before, could you?” snapped John.

“Well, it did work, but it was a delayed effect. The exhaustion after you found him, it was the body shutting down in response to your script. Happens under extreme duress.”

“Nice to know,” John muttered.

John glanced at Mycroft, noting that while the man was looking calm and collected and aloof, he kept his eyes well away from Coventry. Coventry was sitting in a corner on a chair, his hands resting lightly on his thighs, eyes cast down. John looked again at Mycroft, who was staring at the Einstein poster with great, but clearly feigned, interest. John felt a pang of pity for him.

He leaned towards him and said quietly, “I can’t imagine how strange this must be for you.”

“No, you can’t,” Mycroft snapped. He paused and sighed very small. “Thank you,” he said softly.

“It’s not him, you know,” John said. “That’s Coventry, they’re very different.”

“Yes, I know,” Mycroft said, allowing a short glimpse at Coventry. “I see him out of the corner of my eye and I think it’s him, then I look right at him and I see it’s not. They’re still very like.”

“I will take care of him, you know,” John said. “Protect him.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “You will.”

“All right, gang,” Mark said. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

John gave Mycroft one more long, evaluating look, then walked over to Coventry. “Thank you for waiting, Coventry,” he said.

Coventry looked up at him, his face unlined and guileless. “That’s fine. Is it time for my treatment now?”

“Yes. Come and sit.”

Coventry rose and crossed to the chair, but caught sight of Mycroft standing to one side and stopped. “Hello,” he said calmly, curiously. “Do I know you?”

John saw Mycroft swallow, then say, “No, I – we have not yet been introduced.”

“Sit down, Coventry,” John said quietly.

Coventry gazed at Mycroft for a moment longer, then came to sit in the chair, lying back and closing his eyes.

“Ready,” Mark said. He paused, his finger hovering over the button, and looked at Mycroft. “Are you sure, Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, his voice gravelly. “Do it.”

Mark nodded, then clicked Enter. John saw Mycroft start with alarm as Coventry shuddered and twitched in the chair. “It’s all right,” John said.

“I know,” Mycroft snapped. “I just-”

“Mycroft.”

Without looking, John recognized the deeper, smoother voice of Sherlock. He turned and watched Sherlock sit up in his chair, his eyes flashing. “What the hell are you doing here?” Sherlock snarled.

Mycroft visibly collected himself and said coolly, “Hello Sherlock.”

“Brother dear,” Sherlock replied, with a terribly insincere smile. “I haven’t seen you in ever so long. Why don’t you go away and improve my day?”

“Terribly sorry I can’t oblige, Sherlock, but there is business we need to attend to.”

“Terribly sorry I can’t oblige myself, Mycroft. I’m busy.”

John watched the two snipe at each other and realized he was watching a dance of sorts, and old dance, and each of them had fallen into the choreography without hesitation. He tried to imagine Mycroft and Sherlock – the original Sherlock – as children, at the dinner table; he shuddered.

“Shut it, you two,” John said sharply, and all three sets of eyes in the room turned to him in astonishment. He glared at Mycroft, Mark and Sherlock in turn, then said, “Come on, Sherlock, we have to talk. Mycroft and you and I.”

“But the case, John! The girl!”

“It’s about the case, Sherlock. Now come on.”

Sherlock heaved a great, put-upon sigh, then stood and walked to the elevator behind Mycroft. John moved to join them, but was stopped by Mycroft.

“If you don’t mind, Doctor Watson,” he said quietly, “I’d like to speak to Sherlock in private, first.”

John nodded with understanding and stepped aside. As the elevator doors closed, John saw the look of surprise and anger on Sherlock’s face.

+

Two hours later, Mark had crashed on the sofa in his office and John had nearly worn a groove into the carpet from pacing. He envied Mark his ability to sleep anywhere, and remembered that he had possessed the same ability when at uni. Right up until Afghanistan, at which point sleep had become something to wrestle with nightly.

He was concentrating so much on the soft sound of Mark snoring that he nearly missed the subtle ring of the elevator arriving. He stood to see Mycroft emerge; the man looked at least ten years older.

“He wishes to speak with you,” Mycroft said. “Alone.”

John nodded, and changed places with him in the elevator, and looked away from Mycroft’s stricken face as the doors closed.

When they reopened on the upper office, he saw Sherlock sitting on the sofa, his hands steepled under his chin. He didn’t turn or acknowledge John as he entered, and John wondered for a moment whether he should sit beside or across from Sherlock. He decided to take the risk and sat next to him, and waited.

After a full minute of silence, John heard Sherlock inhale as if waking up. “Mycroft is an accomplished liar,” he said.

“Is he,” John said neutrally.

“When I was four, he convinced me that Einstein had invented the yo-yo. I believed him, until Mummy corrected me. I never believed anything he said again.”

“That’s just what older brothers do, Sherlock. And sisters. Harry did that kind of thing to me all the time.”

“He is a very good liar, John,” Sherlock said, his voice growing harder. “You, however, are a terrible liar.”

John barked out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s true.”

“So, John.” Sherlock turned fully towards him, his eyes locked so intensely on John he felt instantly uncomfortable. “Mycroft has told me the most extraordinary thing. Is. He. Lying.”

John swallowed, and shook his head. “No. No, it’s true.”

Sherlock’s razor-sharp stare rolled over him until he felt nearly eviscerated, but he allowed the sharp scrutiny. Finally Sherlock broke eye contact with a sigh. “So,” he said quietly. “I’m not real.”

“Of course you’re real,” John said, refusing to allow pity to enter his voice.

“Don’t be stupid, John,” Sherlock snapped. “Everything I am, everything I think I am, can be saved to a disc at the end of the day and put on a shelf. And this body – this _rented_ body – walks around without me like, like, like a mannequin. Until I’m needed again and they put my brain back in. All I had was here-” Sherlock pointed at his head, “- and now I learn that I am just a – a computer program.”

“Shut up,” John snapped. He grabbed Sherlock’s hand on impulse, and pushed his first two fingers against the pulse point in his own neck. “I’m real, right? And can you feel my pulse? My heart beating?”

“Of course, John, don’t be-”

John pulled Sherlock’s hand from his neck and pushed the fingers against Sherlock’s neck, adjusting his fingers until he knew they were in the right spot. “And can you feel that?”

Sherlock just stared at him, speechless.

“And Magdalen? You saw her body, right? Did she disappear in a puff of smoke when she was killed? Or, or, or, explode with sparks like a computer when she was shot? No. She was real too, and you, Sherlock Holmes, are the one to find the sick fuck who did that to her.”

Sherlock blinked several times, his face blank.

“This whole situation is so fucked, I nearly left several times after I figured out the system. It’s bizarre, and it’s borderline sick. But then I met you and watched you catch people, murderers, thieves, who would have been on the streets else. They’re in jail because of you. Not because of a computer, but because of you.

“The Met won’t be able to figure this out properly, you know that. They’ll write her off as a prostitute whose pimp killed her, or a date gone south. You stay away from this case much longer and they’ll close it, unsolved, too bad. But you’re Sherlock bloody Holmes, and you’ll figure it out. You’ll stop it from happening again. That’s real.”

Sherlock swallowed, and John watched a tiny smile flicker across his face, lighten and grow. He stood abruptly, and John stood with him.

“Come on, John. Mycroft has a flat in Westminster for us to work from. We’ve no time to lose.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John begin their investigation of Magdalen's murder.

The van stopped in front of a house with a glossy black door and a shining brass knocker. John and Sherlock grabbed their bags and jumped out. After a quick questioning glance at each other, Sherlock stepped up and rapped on the door. It swung open to reveal a tiny woman with crinkles around her eyes.

“You must be Sherlock; I’m so happy to meet you, dear! I’m Mrs. Hudson, I’ve owned this house for, oh, coming on fifteen years now. Time passes so quickly, doesn’t it? And you must be Doctor Watson. I’m that pleased to have a doctor here, Mrs. Turner next door has a couple, lovely people, and the taller one is a lawyer, or is it the ginger? Doesn’t matter, now come in and don’t bring the cold in with you.”

Before John quite knew what was happening they had been swept up  the stairs to a comfortably cluttered sitting room, ensconced in chairs with cups of tea and a cake (“Just this once dears, just a special treat for moving in day!”) while Mrs. Hudson chatted without seeming to breathe. After tea was drunk and John had eaten his cake while Sherlock ignored his, Mrs. Hudson cleared the crockery (“I’ll just leave you to settle in, just let me know if you need anything,”) and tapped her way back downstairs.

John and Sherlock sat for a moment in silence; John’s ears were nearly ringing from the absence of chatter. Finally Sherlock licked his lips and looked towards the door, then to John.

“John… is she…?”

John looked towards the stairwell for a moment, and turned back to Sherlock. “Honest to fuck, Sherlock, I don’t know.”

One brief second of eye contact and they were both giggling uncontrollably.  “Oh boy,” John said, wiping his eyes, “your standard landlady personality engagement.”

“Knowing Mycroft, she’s equally able to shoot someone between the eyes at 100 metres with an AK-47,” Sherlock added, choking with laughter.

“I will _never_ look at anyone again without second guessing.”

Eventually their laughter hitched down to chortles, then they were simply grinning madly at each other. “All right, John,” Sherlock said, standing. “We have work to do.”

The flat was well equipped with laptops, printers, books, and office supplies. John didn’t understand the reason for the large boxes of thumbtacks at first, until Sherlock had printed some materials off and started pinning them to the wall. “It’s a mind map, helps me visualize, put the evidence together into patterns.”

Two hours later, a large map of London was on the wall, as well as photos of the crime scene downloaded and printed from Sherlock’s phone.  When everything had been tacked to the wall, Sherlock stood and stared at the mind map for long minutes. Then he rearranged the pictures, muttering unintelligibly to himself; then silence and staring again. Rearrange; stare. Rearrange; stare.

John sat and watched and waited, expecting any moment that Sherlock would exclaim the name and motive of the murderer.

“I need to see the body again,” Sherlock said.

+

Lestrade met them at the morgue at St. Bart’s. John wasn’t sure how the Detective Inspector would greet them after what had happened at the crime scene. Sherlock clearly anticipated the same thing.

“Unavoidable situation, Lestrade,” Sherlock snapped as he strode into the room. “John had some vital information about the case that needed to be dealt with right away. Meant to text, sorry, which drawer is she in?”

_Well, that’s all true_ , John thought. Lestrade sputtered for a moment, then sighed, shrugged and led them to a table with a covered body. Sherlock pulled the sheet down and examined the body in minute detail with his magnifier, inspecting the woman’s fingernails, hairline, the bullet wound in her temple, feet, elbows, the soles of her feet, and finally the word carved into her skin across her chest.

“Your opinion, John?” he said, stepping back.

John hadn’t examined a dead body from the morgue since medical school. He had forgotten the strange sensation of cold radiating from a refrigerated corpse.

“No doubt about the cause of death,” he said, nodding towards the bullet hole. “Some abrasion at the wrists, so she was possibly restrained at some point.” He looked up at Lestrade, unsure of the limits of permission. “Was there any sign of sexual activity or sexual assault?”

“No. No defense wounds either, no blood under the nails.”

Thank God for that at least, John thought. “Tox report?”

“Not back yet.”

“Any blood samples left?” Sherlock asked.

“I can find out.”

John turned his attention to the carving. “Looks like this was done post-mortem.” 

“Yes, with a relatively dull blade so the wounds wouldn’t close up and disappear. Someone wanted this to be seen clearly.”

Sherlock steepled his hands at his lips, then turned to Lestrade. “May I take some photos?”

“Be my guest,” said Lestrade.

John raised an eyebrow at Lestrade as Sherlock snapped pictures of the body. “The Met’s not dropping the case, are they?”

Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck, and John could see the tired lines around his eyes. “Well, not exactly,” he said. “Most of the department thinks she was a working girl, killed by her john or her pimp.” He waved at the carving, “Mary Magdalen the whore, you know. There’s no missing person with her description, no one’s claimed her. So. It’s not closed, but it’s not a number one priority, if you catch me.”

“I do,” Sherlock said, already walking out the door. “Come on, John. Let’s see if there’s anything left to see at the scene.”

There wasn’t; the Met had found very little and it had rained since. Sherlock took more pictures anyway, then stood and stared at the place where she had lain for several long minutes. Then he abruptly turned and hailed a cab.

“I need her file from Mycroft,” he said.

+

“Those poetic morons on the Met think she was a prostitute because she had ‘Magdalen’ written on her body,” Sherlock snorted, pacing the carpet of the sitting room. “Such simplistic thinking.”

“As opposed to immediately knowing that she was a volunteer who had had her personality wiped and could be a nurse or a marksman, depending upon the whim of the highest bidder?”

Sherlock smiled small. “Point taken.” He flipped through the file that had been delivered from Mycroft, Magdalen’s personnel file from The House. “Real name Angela McTeague of Hampstead. A medieval history student at Cambridge, dropped out about six months before she volunteered at The House. My guess is a broken heart.” He looked up at John, his eyes widening. “That’s why I was so confused when I first saw her – I was picking up her tells from her original personality, as well as the one for the engagement. I couldn’t figure out how she could be both a graduate student and a nurse. She was both, and neither.”

“So where do we start?”

Sherlock grinned wolfishly. “Broken heart,” he said.

+

John struggled to keep Sherlock in his sights as they worked their way through the crowded hall. “Oh Christ,” he muttered to himself, adjusting his tie as Sherlock approached the receiving line. Sherlock’s face broke into a wide smile, altering his persona into something much more friendly, open.

“What a lovely wedding!” Sherlock cried, pumping the hand of an older man, clearly the father of the bride or the groom. “Deidre looked just radiant, didn’t she?”

“Lovely, we’re so proud,” said the older man. “I’m so sorry, you’re…?”

“Oh, I’m a friend of Bruce’s from Cambridge but I’m med lit you know, ‘ _Whan that Aprill with its shoures soote_ ’ and so forth,” Sherlock said. “Actually met through Angela, a mutual friend, I think they were an item for a while?” John tried to swallow his lips when Sherlock winked broadly.

“Oh yes, I remember her. Lovely girl, he was a bit put out when-”

“Oh my God, is that old Henny over there? Oh, he owes me a drink, do excuse me,” and Sherlock wormed his way out of the line and away.

“Congratulations,” John said, shook the startled man’s hand, then slipped off after Sherlock.

He caught up with him in the hotel lobby. “Well?” he said.

“Not him, obviously,” Sherlock said, pulling off his tie. “She broke it off with him, it was just a fling, four dates maximum and one mutually disappointing sexual encounter. He met the bride right afterwards, dated for six months, and now getting married. She’s about six weeks pregnant. She knows, he knows, the parents don’t.”

“How the hell do you-?”

+

Sherlock’s fingers tapping on the keyboard provided a beat to his stream of words. “She had no siblings but elderly parents. Feasible that they would have discovered what their beloved daughter was doing, exacted their revenge while revealing the work of The House to the general public.”

“You think her parents killed her?”

“If they’re deeply religious, do you think they’d take well to the notion of an R engagement?”

“Well, no, but…”

“It’s not an uncommon motivation,” Sherlock said, leaning in closer to the screen.

“So how do you-” John glanced over Sherlock’s shoulder, then stared. “You… you friended her mother on Facebook?”

“Mother and father, it’s a joint account. JillandTerry McTeague.”

“You’re on Facebook?”

“Well, no, Patsy Allistair is.” Sherlock smiled a wolfish smile. “I’m in their bridge club. I actually have a number of accounts, for various purposes – ah!”

A few moments of silence as Sherlock studied the screen, then sat back. “Oh. They think she’s on a mission in Cambodia.”

“Really? But how would they accept that she wouldn’t communicate for five years?”

“But she is – look. Regular emails and pictures.”

“How?”

“She must have set them all up before she started at The House. The pictures are all manipulated. Brilliantly manipulated, only an expert could tell.” Sherlock steepled his hands by his mouth, fingertips tapping together. “I must give Mycroft credit for that – that’s very good.”

“So. Not the family.”

“No.”

+

John hadn’t been to a gym in years. He had forgotten the smell of it – sweat, rubber, the metal of the free weights. And the sound of the machines, pounding feet, godawful music, the grunts of people pulling too much weight. But it had been a while since he had just run for the exercise, not sprinted to escape danger or catch a suspect.

Sherlock was on the treadmill next to him, looking disconcertingly like Coventry in track pants and a singlet. Of course the bastard was running effortlessly, barely breaking a sweat.

“So who are we watching for this time?” John said, trying not to sound breathless.

“A former house mate, apparently he fancied her, possible that he could have – there. There he is, in the purple hoodie.”

They ran in silence for a few minutes, and John felt the approach of that moment in a run when the muscles of his trapezoid would relax like water breaking across his shoulders. Just a couple more minutes and –

Sherlock abruptly stopped the treadmill and walked towards the change room. John whispered a curse and stepped off himself. He caught up with Sherlock at the door.

“So?”

“No.”

“Are you-”

“It’s not him,” Sherlock snapped.

+

Sherlock’s fingers drummed on the arm of his chair, the noise blending with the sound of rain outside.

“I’ve been thinking along the wrong lines, John. It must be someone who is quite familiar with The House and its work.”

“How so?”

“What was her engagement when she was killed?”

John pulled the well-thumbed file to himself and flipped through it. “Um. Yes, here. Jenny, surgical nurse.”

“So although she was on a Jenny engagement, she wasn’t marked with the name “Jenny”, or “Angela”, but “Magdalen”.  Remember how Magdalen was spelt?”

“M-A-G-D-A-L-E-N.”

“No E at the end?”

“No.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed. “As you know, there are many variants in the spelling of Saint Mary Magdalene’s name. And there are several churches in London with her name – one in Islington, one in Euston, Havering, Barnet, Brent, Enfield, Wandsworth, _two_ in Richmond upon Thames, for heaven’s sake, and another in-”

“The point?” John said, teeth gritted.

“Oh yes, East Ham. All Roman Catholic parishes. However, according to the file, this Magdalen was named specifically for the _Anglican_ church in Bermondsey. It’s a merged parish, I understand, so Mycroft would find that appropriate…”

“The. Point,” John growled, feeling his patience shred.

“The point, John,” Sherlock replied with a glare, “is that whoever killed her knew not only who she was, but the reasoning behind the code names. Access to the records. An insider.”

“But who…?”

“Who was her handler, John? Do you know him?”

“Uh, I think I met him once in passing. Nick, I think his name was.” John looked up at Sherlock as he realized what Sherlock was aiming towards. “Where is he?”

Sherlock didn’t answer but instead picked up his phone and dialled. “Mycroft,” he barked. “I need the files on Magdalen’s handler and driver.”

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The investigation hits some snags.

“Not much to go on here,” John said, running his finger down the page. “No living parents, no siblings, not married. Who could we interview? The guy was a lone wolf.”

“Hmmm.” Sherlock was staring into the fire, then looked sharply up at John. “And what about you?”

“What?”

“Your parents – where are they?”

John felt anger prickling along his skin, a feeling he hadn’t had for a while but was immediately familiar. “None of your bloody business, Sherlock. What are you implying?”

“They’re dead, aren’t they? And your brother?”

“I don’t have a fucking brother, I have a sister, arsehole, and if you really want to know we don’t speak – oh.”

Sherlock’s voice gentled as he said, “And you’re not married, are you, John?”

John swallowed and pursed his lips, and stayed silent.

Sherlock cleared his throat and said quickly, “So handlers are hired only if they are ‘lone wolves’ – no connections to the outside world.”

“…Yes. I. I – need some tea.”

John escaped into the kitchen and put on the kettle – _the Englishman’s primary tool of avoidance_ , he thought.  He was shocked at how quickly he had reacted to Sherlock’s line of questioning. The man could get under his skin in seconds - more than that, more like _flayed_ his skin. He took some deep, calming breaths while he fiddled with mugs and tea bags, sugar and milk. The morning’s paper lay on the table, unread, and he started flipping through the pages as the water heated.

One headline caught his eye, and he suddenly couldn’t breathe.

“Sherlock?” he said quietly.

“Two sugars, no milk, please.”

“The paper, Sherlock,” John said, unable to express himself clearly.

“Boring.”

John picked up the paper and marched to the sitting room, shoving it in Sherlock’s face, and pointing at the headline:

_Corpses pulled from Thames_

_Two nude men were pulled from the Thames River near Blackfriars Railway Bridge yesterday_

_Police suspect mutual suicide_

+

All morgues are more or less the same, John thought as they entered the cool room at the Westminster Public Mortuary. Same stainless steel tables, same drawers built into the wall.

“Over here,” said the mortician as he led them to two tables.

“God, James,” Sherlock said tearfully. “Do you think it could be Bertie?”

Even though he had seen Sherlock jump into different personas before, it still gave him a shock; it was even weirder to know that Sherlock was doing this deliberately and not with an installed personality. He pushed down his stage fright and patted Sherlock’s arm, saying, “We won’t know until we look, right?”

“Okay. Okay,” Sherlock said, then gulped and turned to the mortician. “Okay.”

The mortician pulled down the sheet on one body, then the other, somewhat dramatically, John thought. Sherlock let out a great gust of air.

“That’s not him. Neither of them. Thank God. Oh James, it’s not him.”

“There’s still hope then,” John said as the mortician replaced the sheets. John fancied he looked a bit disappointed. “Come on now.”

When they were alone in the corridor, Sherlock murmured, “Well?”

“Yes. That was him,” John said quietly. He felt cold, like he was walking underwater. “Nick.”

“Neither of them did it.”

“Okay.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment. “They can’t be properly identified or the police might connect them to Magdalen, and then The House.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll ask Mycroft to figure something out.”

“Thank you.”

+

Sherlock had been silent at the flat for hours, and John was unsure whether he was thinking, or respecting his own sombre mood. Their body count had now tripled on this case, and they were no farther ahead.

John was examining the fridge for potential sandwiches when he heard Sherlock inhale sharply, as though waking up. “John?”

“Yeah?”

“How long was Nick Magdalen’s handler?”

John crossed to the desk and flipped through a file. “Only a couple months. The handler before him was with her for two years.”

“And where is he?”

“He was... He retired.”

Sherlock jumped to his feet and reached for his coat. “Name, address?”

“Hold on, Sherlock,” John said. “You can imagine that Mycroft wouldn’t want people running around the outside world knowing about The House. He’s too much of a control freak.”

“Megalomania does run in the family.”

John grinned at the joke, but his amusement slipped away quickly. “So it’s written into every handler’s contract that when he leaves The House, his memories of his employment are wiped.”

Sherlock’s face went blank, and he sat down.

He did not move or speak for another seven and a half hours.

+

John made dinner, and placed a plate next to Sherlock. He ate his own dinner, and watched Sherlock’s meal grow cool and congeal. He took the plate away and washed the dishes in the kitchen as the sun set and turned the sitting room pink and orange. He flipped through the files again, looking for something that either of them had missed before, something that would put the puzzle together, provide the link that would help them break through.

Up until now, all of the cases he had worked with Sherlock had been solved within hours; sometimes even within minutes. Once Sherlock had glanced at the body for ten seconds at most, rapped out a deduction at the speed of lightening and walked away before John had fumbled his notebook from his pocket. The number of cases John had worked with Sherlock were admittedly few, but he had never seen Sherlock like this – so clearly stumped.

He made tea. The exhaustion of the past few days was beginning to catch up with him, and faced with a choice of heading to bed and leaving Sherlock alone in his catatonic state, or using caffeine as a crutch to keep him going for a while longer, he’d choose the caffeine hands down.

He placed the tea mug on the side table next to Sherlock and sat opposite him. John began to think back over the last two days and remember when Sherlock had last eaten. He knew Sherlock didn’t eat much when on a case but he felt that he should take some responsibility for the man’s blood sugar. After some puzzling he realized with shock that the last thing he could recall was a biscuit half eaten and discarded before heading off to the gym. That was two days ago.

The tendrils of steam from the tea arced into the light from the windows, and suddenly John couldn’t bear to watch this cup of tea to get cold and get thrown down the sink as well. He stood and moved to Sherlock’s side and said softly, “Just drink something, Sherlock.”

No response, no flinch of movement – not surprising. “Come on, you’ll feel better if you do.” After another moment of silence, John felt his frustration build, and he pulled Sherlock’s right hand from its place on the armrest and wrapped it around the cup of tea.

Sherlock blinked several times and tilted his head up to John. John felt a chill go over him at the sight of Sherlock’s blank, impassive face. Then Sherlock turned and threw the mug with full strength against the wall.

Tea and shards of the mug flew everywhere. John ducked instinctively, his hand flying up to protect his face. For a long moment he watched the tea drip down the wall, then turned back to Sherlock.

“The fuck was that all about?”

“Leave me alone.” Sherlock’s voice was low and dangerous, but only added fuel to John’s own anger.

“How fucking _old_ are you? I’m trying to – you need to eat something, you complete arsehole, you can’t function without – and don’t you dare throw things like a teenager on a strop-”

“You’re trying to what – to help me?” Sherlock stood and loomed over John, his hands in fists. “How very kind of you. And tea will help me, will it? Tea will suddenly make all the pieces fall into place in my head, will it? What a very stereotypically England way to think.”

“Well, it didn’t look like the lack of tea or food was helping either, you git. You need something for that brain to run on, even a car needs petrol.”

“Am I a car, then, John? A machine, in need of fuel?”

“No, that’s not what I-”

“Well then, let’s carry on. Fetch a Christmas goose with all the trimmings, I’ll eat the whole thing, and then we’ll go get the murderer. Simple as that. Why didn’t I think of it sooner.”

“You absolute arsehole, you-”

“I NEED TO THINK!” Sherlock roared. “I can’t _think_ , and none of it makes sense anymore, it’s just dead end after dead end, and everything keeps going around and around and I can’t think! I can’t think with your stupid tea, and your inane chatter, and… Just – just leave me alone! Go to bed, or go to hell, just leave me alone!”

“Not. Tired. Don’t send me away like a-”  Something clicked in John’s head. “Hang on, when did you last get some sleep?”

“Irrelevant.”

“No, it bloody well isn’t. Have you slept at all since we got here?”

Sherlock’s eyes twitched to the side and back before he answered smoothly, “Of course, had a few hours last night.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” John said, teeth gritted. 

“Leave me alone,” Sherlock yelled, and tried to brush past John.

Instinctively John’s hand grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and pulled him back. Before he knew what was happening, Sherlock had exploded in a flurry of movement and John found himself up against the mantelpiece, his right hand pinned behind him. He could hear Sherlock panting, and heard the bastard _smiling_ while he panted.

“Baritsu, John,” Sherlock smirked. “It’s a system of Japanese wrestling moves-”

Before he could say any more, John lifted his foot and dragged the side of his shoe down Sherlock’s shin, and stomped on the top of his foot, while jerking his hips back. Sherlock grunted in pain and lost his grip. John took advantage, twisting around and down out of Sherlock’s armlock, using his lower centre of gravity, and drove his shoulder into Sherlock’s solar plexus. They both went down to the floor with an almighty crash that rattled the pictures on the wall.

“Royal Army, Sherlock. Don’t fuck with a soldier.”

The next few moments were filled with curses and grunts of effort as they each grappled for control. John soon realized that if Sherlock was actually at full strength and not half starved and sleep deprived, John might not have stood a chance. As it was, Sherlock was weakened, and John was furious and stubborn. In the end, he pinned Sherlock to the floor, his knee planted in the small of his back, one arm bent behind him and the other held firmly above Sherlock’s head.

“God damn it, John,” Sherlock said, squirming fruitlessly.

“Stop. Fighting,” John snarled, pushing harder against Sherlock’s wrists.

Sherlock sighed dramatically and let himself go limp. “There. Fine. Happy?”

“A bit,” John said, “but not stupid.” He could still feel the tension running under Sherlock’s apparently pliant muscles. “Relax, idiot.”

“I am! Let go!”

“Nope.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, then renewed his struggle against John’s restraint. John simply held on and waited.

After a long moment, Sherlock stopped struggling again. “Please, John,” he whined. “You’re hurting me.”

“No I’m not.”

“Will you sit on me all night?”

“If need be. I’m a stubborn cuss.”

A pause, then Sherlock said, more quietly and with his voice smudged against the carpet, “Takes one to know one.”

John laughed, but didn’t let go.

“I’m – I’m sorry, John.”

“Apology accepted,” John said with a grin, and didn’t let go.

He held Sherlock down and felt each of his muscle groups relent and truly relax until Sherlock was completely limp under his hands. He waited another five minutes after that, then carefully and cautiously released Sherlock’s wrists and rolled off him.

“All right, git. Don’t pull that shit again,” John said. “Now. Why don’t I order-”

Sherlock interrupted John with a quiet snore. John blinked and looked down and saw that Sherlock was dead asleep.

John leaned back against the coffee table and laughed quietly to the ceiling for a moment. Then he stood, feeling the pull of his muscles from the struggle, and walked down the hall to Sherlock’s bedroom. He looked at the neatly made bed and kicked himself for not noticing that Sherlock had not been sleeping at the same time he had been. He pulled the coverlet and a pillow off the bed, walked back to the sitting room and draped it carefully over Sherlock. He took the pillow and gently raised Sherlock’s head and slid it underneath his cheek. Sherlock didn’t respond all except for a short break in the rhythm of his snoring.

John locked the door, cleaned up the tea and broken mug. Then he stretched out on the sofa, pulled a crocheted throw over himself and tucked the Union Jack pillow under his head. He looked over at Sherlock, still deeply asleep on the floor, one arm still arched over his head. He was still chuckling quietly as he fell asleep himself.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The case takes an unexpected turn.

John was standing in the kitchen frying sausages when he heard a quiet snort and inhalation. A moment later he heard Sherlock say, low, “John?”

“Yup.”

“What time is it?”

“Half six.”

Another small pause, and Sherlock said, “How long?”

“About seven hours.”

“Acceptable?”

“Yes.”

He heard Sherlock groan softly as he stood and stretched. “Is that…?”

“Coffee, yes. But tea is easily made.”

“Coffee is fine.”

“Fried or scrambled?”

“I’m not-” Sherlock stopped, cleared his throat, then muttered, “Scrambled, please.”

Twenty minutes later, John took Sherlock’s cleared plate to the sink while Sherlock poured more coffee for each of them. Sherlock looked deep into his coffee as though it was an oracle.

“You could have used the call and response,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“Last night. You could have used the call and response to bring me under control. Taken me back to The House and wiped me.”

John paused in his washing up, his back still to Sherlock. “You’re not actually a machine, Sherlock,” he said softly.

Sherlock did not respond, and John finished the washing up in silence. When he finished, he dried his hands on a tea towel and turned to Sherlock. They stared at each other for a long moment.

“Shall we review the files again?”

“Let’s.”

John was still bent over the files while Sherlock was rearranging his mind map for the tenth time when they heard footsteps thudding up the stairs. They had just enough time to glance at each other before Lestrade knocked perfunctorily at the door and entered.

“Hey Greg,” John said. “I was about to put on the kettle.”

“Yeah, sure, thanks.”  Greg turned to look at the mind map; John quickly slid Magdalen’s file from The House into a drawer as soon as his back was turned and crossed into the kitchen. 

“How’s the progress?” Greg asked.

“Fine, fine,” Sherlock muttered.

“We’ve followed up a few leads,” John said, deciding to not mention that they did not have any new leads at the moment.

Greg held up a file. “I was on my way in to the office and realized you didn’t have the tox report yet. It’s negative but thought you’d want to see for yourself.”

Sherlock snatched the file from his hand and began to scan it, leaving John to be the one to say, “Thanks, Greg.  Sugar?”

“No, just black, thanks. Um, hey. I’ve been meaning to ask you.” Greg rubbed the back of his neck, shifting his eyes away from him. Suddenly John sensed a shift of mood in the air. “I tried ringing you with a case Tuesday last – didn’t leave a message, but – just wondering. Where you were.”

John knew he wasn’t a genius like Sherlock, but as a doctor he had strong observational skills too. He saw that Greg was extremely uncomfortable, nearly guilty, and agitated. The request was unusual and specific, but the interpretation was clear – he needed to know their whereabouts on a certain day, and his motivation was not simply curiosity.

 _My God, Greg is as bad a liar as I am_ , John thought. _He’s checking our alibi for some reason_.

Sherlock was to all outward appearances calm and open, but John could see his eyes widen as he reached the same conclusion as John; then wariness, confusion, and an edge of fear. Because Sherlock had no idea where he was Tuesday last, because Tuesday last he hadn’t been Sherlock; he had been Scott, giving a lecture at Oxford.

It took John ten seconds to decide what to do.

“Don’t look like that, Sherlock. Greg would have found out eventually, you know.”

Two sets of confused eyes turned to him. Fortunately Sherlock was behind Greg so he didn’t see Sherlock’s jaw drop.

John straightened himself, lifted his chin. “Tuesday last – the 19th?”

“Y-Yeah,” Greg said.

“Yeah,” John said, smiling at Sherlock. “He was with me.”

Greg blinked a few times. Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut, and John could swear he saw a twinkle in his eye.

“You mean – do you mean-” Greg said.

“It means exactly what you think it means, Greg,” John said. “We went out. To a chemistry lecture at Oxford.”

“You what?” Greg spluttered as John crossed to Sherlock and sat on the arm of his chair.

“Chemistry, Lestrade, the study of the composition, structure, properties and change of matter,” Sherlock said, sounding bored.  “I find it quite fascinating.”

John elbowed him. “Don’t be smart.”

Greg held up his hands as he shook his head. “I know what bloody – I mean, was this a – a date?”, his voice upturning and going soft with disbelief on the last word.

“First of many, I hope,” John said amiably.

“Let me get this straight,” Greg said, turning to Sherlock. “You took him to a chemistry lecture for a first date?”

“That’s why I get to choose what the second date is,” John said.

“Oh, do let’s go to the cinema like regular people,” Sherlock muttered. Despite the seriousness of the situation, John had to work hard to keep his giggles down.

Greg’s eyes shifted from John to Sherlock; John concentrated on keeping his face open and relaxed. “All right,” he said at last. “I think you’re both mad, though.” He rubbed the back of his neck again. “Um, I had better get back to the office.”

“You’ll let us know if anything new comes up?” John said.

“Yeah. Of course,” Greg said. “I’ll take a rain check on that cuppa, John. See you later.”

John and Sherlock stared at the door until they heard Greg close it behind him, then burst into laughter.

“Just when I thought I had you figured out, John. You are constantly surprising,” Sherlock snorted. “And here I thought you were a dreadful liar.”

“I didn’t lie, did I? I was with you at Oxford, Tuesday last, wasn’t I?”

“But – a date?”

It was John’s turn to smirk. “It _was_ a date – March the 19 th. More of those to come.”

“You are ridiculous,” Sherlock grinned. His smile faded and his demeanour grew sober. “He needed us to establish an alibi.”

“So someone suspects you – us.”

“Lestrade wouldn’t do that unless it was serious.” Sherlock jumped to his laptop. “My guess is they’ve found another body.”

“What are you doing?” John asked as Sherlock tapped away at the keys.

“Hacking into the Yard’s database.”

“Jesus, how – oh God, don’t tell me. The less I know.”

Sherlock ignored him; a few minutes later he made a satisfied noise and leaned closer to the keyboard. “No, no, no new bodies found with the same MO… So why would Lestrade suddenly need to know where we were? Something must have happened to make him suspect us… Hmm.” Sherlock tapped again, muttering, “Password protected, honestly Lestrade, pick something apart from your dog’s name… Ah. Lestrade’s had a busy morning – he’s had a meeting already-”

“You’re into his calendar?”

“Of course. He met with a DI Allan Cooper this morning – I don’t know that name, not from the Yard – where is he-”

Sherlock froze, and John felt the hair on his arms stand up on end. “What is it?”

“Cooper is with the Criminal Investigation Department in the Oxford LPA.”

John swallowed past the lump in his throat. Sherlock blinked for a moment, then opened a new tab. “Nothing in the papers… I’ll try to get into the Thames Valley Police database.”

It was cool in the flat, but John was starting to sweat. He picked up his mug to drink, but it was empty and cold. He dimly remembered laughing earlier, but it now seemed a very long time ago.

He watched Sherlock press his lips together, and look up at him. Silently Sherlock turned the laptop to him. John heard his joints creak as he walked over to look.

“Christ,” he said, as he looked at the crime scene photos, at bloody letters across a dead man’s chest. “It’s Dunstan.”

“Care to guess when the body was found? And where?”

“Tuesday last. Near Jesus College.”

“Right in one.”

“But… if the body was found Tuesday last, why are they only asking about it now?”

“Isn’t it obvious, John? It’s two separate police systems, separate databases. There’s no reason for them to have connected the two murders unless one of them thought to share the information.”

“And Cooper heard about Lestrade’s case, and came down to the city to compare notes.”

“Exactly.”

“Why us, then?”

“I don’t know.”

John let out a huge breath. “It’s – it’s a bit much of a coincidence, isn’t it? St. Bart’s, and Oxford?”

They locked eyes for a moment. John tried to interpret Sherlock’s thoughts through his face, and failed.

“John,” Sherlock said softly. “Where else have I been?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line, “Oh, do let’s go to the cinema like regular people,” is a hat tip to XistentialAngst's "The Great Sex Olympics of 221B" ("Oh, do let's wait until dark like ordinary people.")


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock plan their escape.

“John,” Sherlock said softly. “Where else have I been?”

John opened his mouth but could make no noise for a moment. “You – where – I swear, Sherlock, you were with me every moment, never out of my sight, I-”

“I know, John. Just – where else?”

“Um. You had a Vernet engagement – a concert – in some estate in Hampshire, let me think…”

Sherlock had already turned back to the laptop. “Hampshire has a Constabulary; ostensibly they work with the Thames Valley Police as well, but prefer to be independent…Oh.”

“What? What?” John seemed incapable of saying anyone only once.

Sherlock looked at him, his lip twisted. “Local papers reported it. Male, aged thirty to thirty five, bullet wound to the temple, ‘Alban’ carved into his chest. Found on the moor near the country estate of Lady Hockley-Smyth.”

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock. That’s more than a coincidence. Jesus. Someone’s targeting you.” A sudden thought came to John, and he felt sick with it. “Sherlock, check – check Sussex Downs. Oh God. Mrs. Holmes.”

Sherlock shot a look at him, then turned again to the laptop. He spent much longer this time, silent, tense. John swallowed several times, trying to keep calm.

“No. Nothing.”

“Thank God,” John gasped out. “We’ve got to tell Mycroft. Now. And – Sherlock, we can’t stay. It’s only a matter of time until the police connect the dots.”

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, then pursed his lips. “Normally I would disagree with you, but in this case I think you’re right. The evidence against us is circumstantial, but it’s certainly highly questionable. It’s highly likely Lestrade is getting a warrant right now.” He pulled his phone from his breast pocket and dialled. John watched him, waiting, waiting for Mycroft to pick up. Sherlock’s eyes darted from side to side, then fixed on John’s face as he rapped out, “Mycroft, we need an urgent pickup. We’re coming in. Sending you links.” He hung up and quickly sent a text. Then he put the phone away in his pocket and folded his hands, biting his lips.

“How long?” John said.

“He didn’t answer,” Sherlock said shortly.

“Oh.” John felt his heart tripping up and down his ribs. “How long can we wait?”

“Not sure. If Lestrade is getting a warrant, he’d need to get a justice of the peace to issue one. It depends upon whether he had one lined up already. If he does, he could be back in hours. Maybe less. Or he may not require a warrant, given that we’re talking about multiple murders – he might just be going for backup.”

“Risk I’d rather not take.”

“Agreed.” Sherlock blurred into action. “The CCTV will certainly be watching us, so we can’t arouse any suspicion, nor look like we’re running.”

“So we can’t pack.”

“No. Only what we can carry in our pockets.” His fingers flew over the keyboard again, then clicked enter. “I’ve just wiped the cache memory, so our searches are gone now. It’s likely they’ll search the flat. I’d destroy the hard drive completely but that would raise even more questions.”

John ran to his room and grabbed his gun and phone, tucking the former into the waistband of his jeans, the latter into his pocket. He looked over the rest of his things, then left the room without looking back.

“Should we burn Magdalen’s file from The House?”

“Yes, and flush the ashes. Hurry, John. You have your gun?”

John threw the file in the fireplace. “Yeah,” he said as he held a match to the file and watched the flames lick along the edges of the paper, the image of Angela McTeague wrinkling and disintegrating. “Sherlock, we can’t just go out and hop into a cab. CCTV will just follow us right to The House.”

“So we’ll give them the slip.”

“How?”

Sherlock eyes danced – _damn it, he’s enjoying this_ , John thought.  “We’ll leave looking completely innocent, and be out of the camera’s sight before they realize that we’re on to them.”

“You going to let me in on this, or leave me to improvise?”

“It was your idea, John. We’ll leave under the very conceit you created.”

+

Ten minutes later, they stood by the front door. John’s hand hesitated on the knob.

“Ready?” he said.

Sherlock nodded, and John opened the door. Immediately Sherlock’s body lines changed, relaxed, as though he hadn’t just spent the last ten minutes frantically destroying evidence in the flat.

“Stop here a moment, as if we’re discussing which restaurant to go to,” he murmured as he pulled on his gloves.

“What, not dim sum?” John said, his voice cracking over the joke.

Sherlock mouth twitched. “Sick of dim sum, actually,” he said, then pointed south. “Towards Marylebone.”

John nodded, and they moved down the street. Sherlock’s hand brushed against his.

“Too much?” Sherlock said.

“In for a penny,” John said as he took his hand. He was suddenly reminded of when Sherlock was bonded to him, the feel of the delicate bones in his hand. He cleared his throat. “Any word from Mycroft?”

“No.”

“Does that worry you?”

Sherlock said nothing, which was answer enough.

They were nearly at Marylebone when Sherlock said, “All right, here.” He pulled John to a halt at the entrance to an alley, turning John to face him. One hand came up and cradled John’s cheek and jaw; without thinking, John put one hand on Sherlock’s waist.

Sherlock leaned in. “It’s only an act for the cameras, John,” he murmured.

“I know,” John said.

Sherlock looked left and right, then pulled John into the alley. Once they were ten feet into the alley and out of the range of the CCTV, Sherlock dropped John’s hand and his body resumed its usual tension.

“They’ll look at that and assume we’ve gone into the alley for a snog. We’ll cut through here, along Dorset Square and come out onto a very different part of Marylebone, very busy. Blend in with the crowd and grab a cab.”

“Brilliant,” John said. “Put your collar down. Less distinctive.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow but obeyed. A few moments later they were watching the traffic along Marylebone from the alley, through a throng of pedestrians.

“Wait… wait… wait – now,” Sherlock said, and they dashed out, directly into a cab as the traffic lights turned green. John grinned at Sherlock as the car pulled into traffic, and gave an address to the cabbie, several blocks away from The House.

The exhilaration wore off quickly during the cab ride. John tried not to turn around every thirty seconds, to check the street behind for police lights; Sherlock fiddled with his mobile phone. John didn’t have to ask whether Mycroft had yet responded.

“It’ll be all right once we’re there,” John said. “Safest place in the world right now.” He wasn’t sure if he was assuring Sherlock or himself. Sherlock didn’t answer.

The cab dropped them off in front of an innocuous office building. Sherlock wrapped his coat around himself, almost as if he was making himself smaller, as they moved through the crowd.

“We’ve only ever entered The House by van,” Sherlock said. “How do we enter on foot?”

John felt a chill. “I’m not sure. Shit, I hadn’t thought of that.” He saw the driveway leading to the parking garage. “Nothing for it.”

They walked down the steep driveway to the heavy garage doors. John noticed an intercom box on the right side of the door. He looked at Sherlock, shrugged, walked to it and pressed the silver button.

“Identification?” a voice crackled through the speaker.

“John Watson. Handler. And Sh – Coventry.”

He heard the squeak and hum of a camera turning towards them. He looked up towards the small security camera near the top of the garage door. He heard Sherlock breathing, noisy and fast.

“Thank God, Doctor Watson. Come in, quickly.”

The door rose a few feet, and John and Sherlock quickly ducked under it. The moment they were clear the door closed again without having fully opened. John breathed freely for the first time in two hours as it clanged shut.

As they walked through the garage towards the elevator, John noticed that the spaces were nearly full of black vans, but the place was deserted of people.

As they approached the elevator, it dinged and opened. A man John didn’t recognize came out and walked briskly towards them.

“Pardon my language, but thank fuck you’re here,” said the man. 

“Where’s Mycroft?” Sherlock snapped.

“He’s gone to secure a location in Sussex, he said. He received your message and passed it on to me.” John heard Sherlock exhale.  “I’ve been calling everyone in, all the handlers, all the drivers. You’re the last to arrive. Everyone’s in, everyone’s secure.”

He was close enough for John to see now; tall, slightly reddish hair cut close, muscular build. John was sure he could see a military bearing in the man’s walk.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“No, I’m sorry. I started just after you two went out last week. Mr. Holmes briefed me fully on the situation.” He extended his hand to John. “I’m Sebastian Moran, the new head of security.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John return to The House.

John shook Moran’s outstretched hand as they entered the elevator. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Moran.”

Moran grinned. “That’s Captain Moran, Captain – I’m an Afghan vet as well. But to you I’m Sebastian.”

“John. I had heard we might be getting a new head of security but I didn’t know for sure.”

“Glad to be aboard,” Moran replied. “I came through the Australian house, arrived here just before all the shit hit the fan. Mr. Holmes and I developed what we’re calling ‘Operation Hearth’ – bringing the entire staff in – actives, handlers, drivers, everyone – and keeping them in. Place is locked up tighter than Fort Knox. No one goes out, and no one comes in until the case is broken.”

“Sensible,” Sherlock said.

Moran turned to Sherlock and extended his hand as well. “Sherlock. I’ve read your file – quite remarkable. I’m glad to meet you at last.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said flatly, but returned the handshake.

Moran turned back to John. “So, John, let’s get Sherlock wiped and then I’ll need a full briefing-”

John felt the blood rush from his face. “Wait, what? Wipe – no, no, we can’t do that.”

Moran turned to face him as the elevator door opened onto Mark’s workroom. “John, it’s procedure-”

“Nothing’s procedure right now!” John felt dizzy, as though his circulation had slowed or stopped. “He can’t – he has to solve the case! We can’t wipe him yet, he-”

“John,” Sherlock said calmly, “he’s right.”

John turned to face Sherlock, dimly aware that his mouth was hanging open. “What?”

Sherlock looked up at Moran. “A moment please,” he said, and Moran nodded and stepped away, speaking to Mark in low tones.

Sherlock’s jaw was set and firm as he turned back to John. “John, I exhausted every lead. You were there. Every single lead went nowhere.”

“But there’s new cases now, you can-”

“I can do what?” Sherlock snapped. “Go and look at the bodies? Investigate the crime scenes? Obviously not, I’ll be arrested the moment I step outside The House. I could hack into the police systems but all I would get is some idiot’s autopsy report, inaccurate, with blurry photos… and any hacking would eventually be discovered, and they’d trace the signal back here. That’s it. We’re done. We’ll have to leave it to the morons on the Met.”

John’s breath was all squeezed out of his lungs. “But… Sherlock…”

“I couldn’t solve it, John. My sleeping wasn’t going to solve it, my eating wasn’t going to solve it. I was getting nowhere, and now my hands are tied. Your loyalty is admirable, but it’s over.”

“I…”

“I told you before that I don’t like to dwell on my mistakes, John.” Sherlock’s voice was steely, hard.

John looked down, and couldn’t raise his eyes. He pursed his lips, aware that his brow was furrowed, but he could think of nothing to say.

“Let me pass, John,” Sherlock said.

John’s head snapped up, and he realized that he was standing between Sherlock and the chair. Numb from head to toe, he stood aside.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said as he swept past. He nodded at Moran and said, “Thank you for the… precautions you’ve taken to protect my… Mycroft’s work.”

“An honour and a privilege,” Moran replied.

Sherlock nodded at Mark, then hesitated, looking at the chair.

“Sherlock?” John said, feeling sick.

Sherlock stared at the chair for a moment, then laughed; a harsh, bitter sound. “Do you know, I honestly thought this really was a treatment. A spa. I always felt… rested afterwards.”

“That’s because you are sleeping, in a way,” Mark said gently. “We’ll take care of things here, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled, a wry twist of his lip. “You bet,” he said, and sat in the chair. He took a moment to settle in, to arrange the wings of his coat around him, then nodded at Mark.

John looked away as Sherlock’s body jerked in the chair. He couldn’t even look up when he heard Coventry’s soft voice say, “Did I fall asleep?”

+

John startled when he felt someone touch his hand. He looked up and saw Mark, his face worried and lined, and felt Mark press a mug of coffee into his hand.

“Come on, mate,” Mark said. “Don’t take on like that. You two did your best.” John sipped the coffee; it was bitter and scalding and so strong he could almost feel the grit of the grounds on his teeth. It worked, and he felt a bit better.

“Fucking hell, Mark. Five people, dead. Five – wait, have they found the other handlers and drivers?”

Mark shook his head, his mouth turning down.

“So – probably – twelve. All pointing at Sherlock.”

“You two are lucky you got in in time.”

“Yeah… God, if Sherlock had been arrested…”

“They wouldn’t have just arrested Sherlock, John,” Mark said. “You were at all those places too, remember? Neither of you were looking particularly angelic there.”

John let his breath out in a long hiss. “Jesus, I hadn’t thought of that.”

Mark laughed without humour. “That’s just like you, buddy.” He slapped John on the shoulder. “Come on, guzzle that brew, Moran needs a briefing.”

“But Sh – Coventry…”

“I’ll take him down to change and to see Molly. You’d better go.”

“Right.” John stood and swallowed the coffee down, grimacing at the burn down his esophagus. “God damn, Mark, how can you drink this stuff?”

Mark grinned. “I am preparing my body to withstand anything. I believe in our Saviour, Saint Albert of Einstein. I am invincible.”

“With this stuff in your veins, you’ll last a day longer than the end of the world,” John said as he left the room.

A few minutes later he tapped on Moran’s half open office door. “John?” Moran called. “Yeah, come on in. Have a seat, you must be knackered. I won’t keep you long, I promise.” Moran gestured towards the chair opposite his desk. “Can I get you a coffee or something?”

“Thanks, just had one from Mark.”

Moran froze. “Jesus,” he said. “You okay?”

John laughed despite himself, and Moran grinned at him. John felt some tension give across his shoulders.  “Look, Captain Moran…”

“Call me that again and I’ll cashier you. It’s Sebastian.”

John nodded and sat. “Sebastian, then. Look. I’m – Sorry about my behaviour. Earlier. I-”

Moran waved as though brushing away a fly. “Don’t worry about it, seriously. It’s been pretty intense, I know, and I threw a curve ball you weren’t expecting. Absolutely understandable.”

“… That’s very kind.”

“Look.” Moran folded his hands on his desk and stared down for a moment.  “You were invalided out of Afghanistan, right?”

“Yeah. Wounded in the shoulder, near Kandahar.”

Moran held up his right hand to show a mass of knotted flesh in the pad of flesh below his little finger. “Sangin. Couldn’t hold my gun anymore.” Moran paused, bit his lip. “It’s hard, isn’t it, coming back?”

John took a deep breath in, and still found himself unable to speak. He nodded.

“I think I figured it out, though. Why it’s so hard. Being sent back, when you don’t want to go. The news is full of the war, and you think of the other people still out there, and the work you were doing. And it feels like – unfinished business.”

John looked up at Moran, amazed at hearing his post-injury despair put into words so succinctly. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, that’s it exactly.”

“So situations like this are even harder for people like us. Leaving a job unfinished. You and Sherlock did amazing work but – well, they’re still over there, in Afghanistan, our troops, aren’t they? The war goes on, with or without us. We just have to let them do their stuff.”

John nodded, and felt himself begin to breathe more easily.

“That said, we have to take care of our troops here, in the meantime,” Moran said. “We’re on lockdown, and will stay that way as long as it takes, no matter who whines about it.” He sat up and clapped his hands. “Now. Brief me. I’m dying to hear what you two have been doing.”

John took a deep breath and began. 

When he finished, Moran sat back in his chair and shook his head. “Incredible. I read the file on Sherlock and all the cases he’s done, and I thought they were exaggerated. You’re not having me on?”

“Nope. God’s truth.”

“Incredible.” Moran shook his head again, and stood. “You look ready to drop, John. We’ve set up accommodation for the staff down in the main living area of The House. Men in the gymnasium, women in the spa area. Though I suspect there will be some sneaking back and forth, which I will steadfastly ignore. Find yourself a bunk down there. You didn’t get to bring any of your gear, did you?”

“No, had to leave it all behind.”

“We’re allowing a bit of a stipend for people to order clothes, personal supplies, that sort of thing. Anthony’s in charge of that, talk to him tomorrow. I want to talk to you again in the morning about a few other things, how to keep the staff from going mad in here, but that can wait.”

“Thanks, Sebastian.” John was half jittery from the coffee and half ready to lie down on the floor right there in Moran’s office. “Night.”

John stepped towards the door, and Moran said, “John?”

John turned to look; Moran had a half smile on his face. “You’re safe now.”

“Yeah. I know. Thanks.”

Moran extended his hand. “You can hand in your gun now.”

John felt how stretched out his nerves felt, thin and worn. He became suddenly aware of how long he had been afraid, functioning on adrenaline. He felt tired, tired to death. He nodded, pulled his gun from his waistband and laid it on Moran’s desk.

Moran unloaded it, then nodded at John. “Fall out, soldier.”

John went to the hastily-assembled barracks for the male employees in the gymnasium, found a bunk and stared at the ceiling for an hour, then slept for eight hours.

+

There are inherent problems with essentially incarcerating a large group of people for an extended period of time, even if it’s for their own safety.

John had to admit that Moran was doing an excellent job of managing the staff. Thirty-plus men and women, all of whom were accustomed to an active lifestyle, living in an enclosed space, was rife with possible bad situations. As he had said he would, Moran turned a blind eye to the staff intermingling, even after hours; but with the actives themselves he drew a hard line.

“It’s one thing between two consenting adults,” Moran had said to him over coffee one morning. “The situation is a pressure cooker, and you need to let out some steam every once and a while. But the actives, they can’t consent. They’re like children in this state. So I’ve let it be known that anyone that so much as touches an active will have to kip in my office with me for the duration, then they’ll be wiped and dropped off in a marketplace in Marrakech before the day is out.”

The building was not built to accommodate the number of people now ensconced in The House. Moran arranged shifts for the weight room, swimming pool, and bathing area:  men, women and actives. Moran had asked John to keep a subtle eye on the staff for inappropriate behaviour, but John saw nothing – everyone seemed to understand the rules and the reasoning behind them.

The food was excellent and plentiful. Moran was attentive to detail; one night a driver spoke at length about how he missed the food at his local, and the next night steak and kidney pie was on the menu.

Book clubs were organized; groups ran laps around the perimeter of the largest hall; movie nights were held regularly; football games were regularly broadcast. Some employees even took up some of the activities normally reserved for the actives – art, bonsai, yoga.

John stood on the balcony looking over the main hall at a yoga class in progress. Coventry was in the middle of the group, his long arms and legs effortlessly moving from pose to pose. Some of the staff, new to yoga, often flailed or lost their balance, but Coventry seemed rooted to the ground.

He became aware of someone standing next to him, and turned to see Molly. “Hiya, Molly,” he said.

Molly smiled and nodded towards the group below. “Ever done that?”

“Christ, no,” John said. “You’d have to untangle me afterwards. You?”

“Oh no, no, no. I couldn’t. I’d be too embarrassed.” They looked down together and watched in silence for a minute.  “He’s very good at it, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he – wait, who?”

Molly ducked her head and grinned. John grinned back and bumped her shoulder. “Watch it, you.”

“You’re bored, aren’t you?” Molly said quietly after a moment.

“Oh, God, yes,” John said. “It’s been two weeks and – I mean, I’m glad everyone’s safe, but I feel so damn – useless.”

“But you-” Molly swallowed, and started again. “Don’t you realize that you probably saved their lives? Getting the message to us allowed us time to bring everyone in, make them safe. Everyone thinks that – has no one said that to you?”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

“Well, it’s true. Just – thank you. From all of us. Them.”

John smiled at her. He had begun to think of her as a little sister – one that didn’t drink to excess anyway.

Molly bumped his shoulder, then looked at her watch. “You’d better go, John, it’s almost time.”

John hugged her with one arm and headed towards the lecture hall. When he arrived, the hall was filled with the hubbub of people getting coffee, arranging for pens and notebooks, finding seats.  John walked to the front of the room.

“Hey, everyone, have a seat please,” he said. As everyone sat, he tried not to look at the six empty chairs in the back of the room. He cleared his throat and continued, “Looks like everyone’s bearing the marks of Lee’s hand-to-hand defense class yesterday.”

Good natured laughter filled the room, and a petite woman with curly auburn hair in the front row raised her fist in the air.

“Right. Let’s begin,” he said, and nodded to Daniel, a driver who was operating the projection system. A biolink display filled the screen. John looked at it for a moment, remembering that this was a recording of Magdalen’s biolink from his first night on the job. He took a deep breath, and began.

“Biochemistry is more than numbers and balances. The chemicals in the brain tell the story of what the body is experiencing, and could be a way to watch your active without actually seeing them…”

+

After the lecture, John was tidying his notes when Moran stuck his head through the door. “Finished?” Moran said.

“Yeah, about ten minutes ago.”

“Brilliant.” Moran closed the door and walked to John, an excited grin on his face. “I’m going to make an announcement in a minute, but I wanted to tell you first.”

“What’s up?”

“I just got word from Mr. Holmes, he’s been keeping me up to date, discreetly, from outside, you know.” Moran was bouncing on the balls of his feet, grinning broadly. “They caught the bastard, John. They found him. It’s over.”

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes Coventry on an extra engagement as a favour.

John sat down heavily. “What?” he said, his voice coming out higher than he meant. “What?”

“They found the killer. It’s over, buddy.”

“How-?”

Moran sat on a chair backwards, his hands gripping the backrest.  “It was Magdalen’s – sorry, Angela McTeague – it was her uni professor. He’d become obsessed with her, stalking her, and she kept turning him down. He never bought the story we fed the family about her going to Cambodia, and he somehow found out about The House. Saw her by chance one day and followed her. Killed her and then broke into the van, killed Nick and Joseph, the driver. Figured out about The House from the van.

“Then apparently he decided he wanted to bring the whole system down in revenge. He followed the others, just choosing randomly.”

“Randomly? But they were all near where Coventry’s engagements were!”

Moran smiled. “John, you’ve forgotten the other common factor – our clients. All the actives were dumped on the property of our clients. He was trying to point a finger at them, their culpability in The House’s system.”

John swallowed. “So, they’ve arrested him?”

Moran pursed his lips and became more solemn. “No. He’s dead. Suicide. He left behind a written confession – that’s where all the information came from. Mr. Holmes is shushing the whole thing up now. Fortunately the police are looking at it as the ramblings of a criminal insane man.”

 _Jesus Christ_ , John thought. _A broken heart. Sherlock was so close – a broken heart. Just… the wrong heart_.

Moran stood and clapped his hand on John’s shoulder. “Come on down for the announcement – you deserve to hear the cheering.”

“In a minute. Thanks, Sebastian.”

Moran grinned and jogged out of the room. John felt the emptiness of the room echo around him, feeling like he didn’t deserve anything.

+

John didn’t go down for the announcement, but he did hear the cheer rise up from the main hall and the excited chatter of the staff. He waited until the noise died down before walking down to the main hall. Not a single staff person was in sight; all that remained were some of the actives, who were walking or sitting or standing with happy but puzzled smiles. He didn’t see Coventry.

“Where did everyone go?” said a gentle voice at his elbow.

John turned and saw Assisi, a muscular young man, an active who specialized in bodyguard work. “It was so crowded, and now it’s not,” said Assisi.

John felt his mouth turn up into half a smile. “No, now it’s not,” he said.

“May I swim?” said Assisi.

John remembered that the actives had been used to accessing the pool whenever they wished, and they had been on shifts lately. “If you wish.”

Assisi smiled and walked away – not rushing, but with measured steps, towards the pool area. John watched him go, then turned towards the gymnasium barracks.

A surprising number of the male staff had already packed and left; clearly they were not giving Moran an opportunity to change his mind. Two or three were packing the last of their things, and they shook John’s hand before they left. John remembered summer camp as a child, and the combination of relief and sadness on the last day. Now it was mostly relief.

John was alone in the room and zipping up his new backpack when Moran came in. “You’re still here, slowpoke?”

John shrugged with a small smile. “Just can’t believe it’s really over.”

“Believe it, my friend. Though I have to admit I’m relieved to see you here still. I need to ask you yet another favour.”

“Yes?”

Moran rubbed his face with his hands, looking tired. John wondered how much the man had been sleeping over the past two weeks. “I’ve just notified our regular clients that we’re open for business again. You can imagine – well, the ansaphone will be full in the morning. But one of our most faithful, and – gotta be honest – our most generous clients called the second the email landed. He’s an artist; we’ve been supplying him with models every week for almost a year. He’s asked for someone to come today, he’s got a deadline with a gallery in Soho he has to make.

“I haven’t the heart to recall anyone, they ran out the door like the hounds of hell were after them. I know it’s not Coventry’s regular gig, but he’s got the looks and it would be a simple engagement. Would you…?”

“Artist’s model?” John felt his voice go hard.

Moran held his hands up. “No funny business, I promise. Tasteful. We wouldn’t have kept him on as a client if there were. No nudes, fully clothed. He’s got a gorgeous painting of Boniface in some gallery in New York.”

John hated the idea. The whole idea of going out with Coventry as any other personality made him feel sick, but he still felt a sense of responsibility for the whole situation. “… All right.”

“You’re a lifesaver, John. Let me dig up a driver for you. Could you find Coventry and head upstairs? Mark will get everything set up.”

John set his backpack down on the bed and followed Moran out of the room.

He found Coventry with several other actives in the art room, kneeling on a pillow and painting on a canvas in front of him.

“Hello Coventry,” John said gently. There was something about Coventry that made him gentle his voice and actions, more so than usual.

Coventry looked up with an open smile. “Hello.”

“What are you painting?”

Coventry looked at the paper, as though he had forgotten who had painted the expanse of blue. “The pool.”

“Very nice,” John said. “I thought it might be the sky.”

“No, the pool. I like to swim.”

“Me too,” John said, and extended his hand to Coventry. “Time for your treatment.”

“Oh. Thank you,” Coventry said, laying down the brush. He put his hand in John’s to stand, and John was struck again by how thin and delicate his fingers were.

“It’s been a long time,” said Coventry.

“Hm?”

“It’s been a long time since I had a treatment.”

“Um. Yes.”

“I’ve missed it. I love my treatments.”

“I know. You’ve been very patient.”

“Thank you. I try to be my best.”

John fought back his own sense of failure and said, “Yeah. Me too.”

In the workroom, Mark greeted them with a friendly wave. “Good of you to do this, John.”

“Moran’s lucky you hadn’t raced out of here too.”

“Damn straight. Have a seat, Coventry.”  Mark pulled a wedge from the shelf. “John, this is a new personality for Coventry, but I’ve used him before. This is Toby, artist’s model, a very basic personality – quiet, patient, able to hold still for long periods of time. To be honest, I’ve used this personality for several of Mr. Milverton’s engagements, just in different bodies. It’s Tabitha for the women.” He pushed the wedge into the slot behind Coventry’s head. “Ready?”

“Okay,” John said, steeling himself.

Coventry jerked in the chair. John noticed for the first time Coventry’s long fingers stretching out, his shaking hands. Then the hands stilled and the chair rose to a sitting position. Coventry – Toby – blinked.

“Hey,” he said softly to Mark. “Mr. Milverton doing another piece?”

“Yes, Toby. Toby, this is John, he’ll take you there.”

“Oh, hi. Great, thanks.”

Toby was silent in the elevator, peering at himself in the steel paneling as a mirror, fiddling with his hair. Wardrobe outfitted him with black jeans that fit like a second skin, and a white v-neck T-shirt.

“Hm, an urban piece this time, I guess,” Toby said. “All right, John – John, was it? Let’s go.”

A driver had been found, and took them to a studio in Portobello Road. John accompanied Toby to the door of the studio, and knocked. The door swung open to a man with paint spattered clothing and a frown.

“Thank goodness,” said Milverton. “This is pressing me very close to my deadline – why couldn’t I have my regular appointment for the past two weeks?”

“Unavoidable issues, sorry,” said John, but didn’t feel or sound at all sorry.

But Milverton’s focus had already turned to Toby. He grasped Toby’s chin and turned his head back and forth. _If he checks his teeth like a horse I’ll have to hit him_ , thought John, clenching his fist, but Toby simply stood and accepted the scrutiny.

“Lovely bone structure,” said Milverton at last. “All right, give me at least four hours, that should be enough to sketch him in.”

“Right,” said John, and Toby followed Milverton into the studio without a backwards glance. Milverton shut the door, and John stared at it for a moment before turning away to the alleyway behind the building, where the van was parked.

He stepped into the back of the van and fiddled with the biolinks for a while, but everything looked well. On a whim, he flipped the switch for the voice link, and heard Milverton speaking: _“That’s right, drop your chin a little… yes, tilt a bit to the right…”_

_“Here?” said Toby._

_“No, back a bit – there. Hold. Good. Can you lean back and – yes, like that – stretch your arms out-”_

“Didn’t run fast enough, eh John?”

John’s head whipped around at the voice, but then smiled at the driver. “Hey Jeremy. You too, huh?”

Jeremy shrugged. “Frankly, that was better digs than I’ve had for a while. My bedsit is crap. I wasn’t in a rush. Nice to be outside though.”

“Yeah, true.”

Jeremy drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “John, look – would you mind – I’m gasping for a cigarette. Would it bother you if I…?”

“Go ahead.”

“I’ll just be on this side of the van, downwind.”

“Doesn’t bother me.”

“Thanks, John.”

John heard the door slam, the flare of the cigarette lighter. He heard Milverton saying, _“That’s right, hold there, hold… relax your hands… no, like… here, let me show you…”_

And he heard the snicking sound of a gun being cocked on his right side.

The sound bypassed the rational part of his brain and went right to his amygdala. He caught the side of the van with both hands and swung himself around, catching Jeremy in the solar plexus. Jeremy’s breath whooshed out in a great gasp; he lost his grip on the gun but didn’t drop it. Before he could recover, John kicked out his right knee; as Jeremy went down John delivered two more kicks – one to the wrist, hearing the bone crunch and the gun hit the ground – the other to the chin, and Jeremy lay still.

John stood there and stared at Jeremy’s prone body for a moment, feeling the adrenaline sing through his body and trying to get his breathing under control.

“Jesus,” he said. “Jesus Christ.”

Then he realized that he could hear nothing at all from the voice link.  

He scooped Jeremy’s gun from the ground and checked it; a bullet in the chamber. He left the safety on and ran back to the studio entrance. Fighting down the nausea of his déjà vu, he first tried the door, then kicked it; it held firm. The door was old, wooden, and solid. He raised his gun and shot at the lock. It splintered and another kick knocked it open.

As he ran up the stairs he heard Toby bellowing, “John! _John_!”

The stairway opened into the studio space, full of easels and canvasses, splashes of paint and rags. An iron bed was in the centre of the room, and Toby was cuffed to the railings, his arms spread wide. Milverton was on the bed as well, with Toby’s legs locked around his neck. Milverton was cursing and fighting hard, his face red; Toby’s muscles were strained, the veins popping on his arms.

“Hurry John, I can’t hold him much longer!” Toby shouted.

A series of images flashed through John’s mind – of Magdalen crying helplessly around a ball gag, of the naked, whining client. He ran forward and smashed the butt of the gun into Milverton’s face, and the man went limp.

John dragged the man off the bed and dumped him unceremoniously on the floor. Toby groaned and pulled his legs up towards his chest. John could see now that Toby’s wrists were raw and bloody, and that his T-shirt had been ripped down the middle, exposing his clavicle. He saw a knife on the other side of the room.

“Oh God,” he said, the shakes setting in. “Oh God, Toby. I am so sorry. Are you all right? Did he hurt you?” He knelt on the bed beside Toby and ran his hands helplessly over the cuffs. “We’ll get you out of this, Toby, it’s all right now-”

“John, John, _John_!” said Toby. “It’s me. It’s Sherlock.”

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock plan their next move.

“What?” John said.

“I hate repeating myself, John. Hurry, find the handcuff key and get me out of this.”

“What?” John said again. He seemed to be stuck, his brain and his body frozen.

Sherlock sighed impatiently. “John. I am Sherlock. I am not Toby. Find the key.”

John blinked for a moment, then turned to the worktable. He stared at the tubes of paint, brushes, rags…

He turned back to the bed. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock gritted his teeth. “John, as wonderful as it is to have a relatively normal conversation again, one that does not reference my ability to be my best, or how nice the food is, or whether it’s all right to go swimming, and I promise you I will fully explain in good time, at the moment it’s imperative that we get out of here, and I can’t unless you actually _use_ the brain you were given and find the key to these handcuffs. I’d suggest a piece of wire but I can’t pick them when my hands are separated like this. Look on the table, the key is small, perhaps two centimetres. These aren’t standard police cuffs, but fetish cuffs, but the key should look about the same. Key shaped, I’m sure you’ve seen a key before. You’re not stupid, I know you’re passably clever when you put your mind to it, and I recognize the stultifying effects of adrenaline on the rational parts of the brain, but it surely is not beyond the scope of reason to-”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John snapped, and miraculously he did. “Where. Did. He. Get. The handcuffs. From.”

Sherlock blinked, and said, “His pocket.”

John knelt beside Milverton and reached into the deep pockets of the painter’s smock he was wearing, and soon found the tiny key. “Just the one. Will it unlock both, do you think?”

“Likely – try.”

It did, and soon Sherlock was rubbing his wrists as he rolled off the bed. “Better cuff Milverton,” he said.

John used one set of cuffs on Milverton, pinioning his arms behind his back. He automatically arranged the man’s body into the recovery position, but also stuffed a relatively clean rag into the man’s mouth.

“Take my jacket,” John said, shrugging it off.

Sherlock put it on but the sleeves didn’t reach his wrists. “This looks ridiculous.”

“Well, you can’t go out with your shirt torn like that, and there’s blood.”

“It will have to do for now.” He slipped the knife up his sleeve as John checked the gun for bullets. Sherlock stopped and frowned at him. “How do you have a gun? Did you smuggle it out?”

“No, I didn’t know this was going to happen, did I? I got it off Jeremy.”

“Who?”

“The driver.”

Sherlock froze. “Did he – you-”

“Yeah. Well, we’d better get down there, hopefully he’s still out.”

They emerged cautiously into the alley, John first with the gun out. Jeremy was still lying beside the van but was stirring slightly. John quickly cuffed him and stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth, the cloth swallowing Jeremy’s groans.

“Should we take the van?” said Sherlock.

“No, it’s likely got a tracer on it. Help me get him in, we can get him out of sight at least.”

After a quick glance up and down the alley to ensure no one was watching, Sherlock helped John hoist Jeremy into the back of the van. John was again turning Jeremy onto his side in the recovery position when he heard the unmistakable burble of a mobile phone ringing from Jeremy’s pocket.

He looked up at Sherlock, startled. A long moment stretched out as the phone continued to ring.

Sherlock licked his lips and said, “I never spoke to Jeremy. I don’t know what he sounds like.”

John took a breath that didn’t fill his lungs nearly enough, and fished Jeremy’s phone out. He flipped it open, holding the mouthpiece slightly away from his mouth, and said, “Yeah?”, affecting Jeremy’s northern twang.

“Is it done?”

John closed his eyes against the rage rising from the pit of his stomach. “Yeah,” he said. His breathing rate was up, but knew that the panting would serve to obscure his voice more.

“Good. I’m on my way. There’s a little present for you under the passenger seat of the van. You can disappear. Have a good life.”

“Okay,” said John, aware that the hand holding the phone was shaking. He disconnected, and stared at the phone.

“John?” Sherlock said.

John turned and threw the phone against the wall. “Moran. It was fucking Moran,” he snarled, stomping on the remains of the phone. “I had _coffee_ with the bastard. He-”

“John!” Sherlock interrupted, pulling on John’s arm. “What did he say?”

“He – he said he’s on his way. There’s something under the passenger seat. That I – Jeremy – should disappear.”

Sherlock turned and opened the passenger side of the van, reaching under the seat. He pulled out a thick envelope, and opened it.

“There’s at least ten thousand pounds in here,” he said, pocketing the envelope. “Come on, John, we have to get out of here _now_.”

Sherlock’s last word finally spurred John into action. While John closed the door of the van, hiding Jeremy from view, Sherlock stabbed each of the four tires. “At least he can’t follow us quickly.” He tucked the knife back up his sleeve and edged to the end of the alley. “Let’s go.”

“Where can we go?”

“I don’t know. Away from here. Someplace where we can regroup.”

They walked out onto the street as nonchalantly as possible. “Are we better in crowds, or a quieter street?” John whispered.

“Let’s get onto Portobello Road for now and blend in, get some distance,” muttered Sherlock.

They joined the pedestrian traffic on Portobello, amongst the tourists poking in the antique shops and the locals trying to get their shopping done for tea. Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets to hide the short sleeves. John felt himself getting even more tense whenever Sherlock moved away from him to walk around a hydrant, or when someone walked between them.

“Calm down, John.”

“Shut up, Sherlock.”

They walked in nervous silence until the fashionable shops were behind them, and the pound stores were more plentiful. The streets became a bit more grotty and dingy.

“I don’t think we’ve been followed,” Sherlock murmured. “Let’s peel off to a residential street and see what happens.”

They turned off Portobello to a street filled with nice but not posh townhouses. There were fewer people on the road now, but no one seemed to be following them. John’s head hurt from watching everything for the slightest movement, for the least sign of danger.

“I have an idea,” Sherlock said. “This way.”

John looked up and saw the name of the street and half laughed with nervous tension. “All Saints Road. How appropriate.”

“Shush, John,” Sherlock said, but a small smile leaked out.

Sherlock led them onto yet another side street, residential, but less nice; clearly assistive housing, made brave with flower gardens. After passing a small playground, they came into a laneway lined with rowhouses, one up, one down. Sherlock walked along the kerb, studying each flat as they passed.

“This one,” he said at last, and with one final glance around them, slipped down the stairway to the door.

“Why this one? Is it a safehouse?”

“No, the resident works a double shift and won’t be back for hours. And there’s a wire hanger here, I can pick the lock.”

“Jesus, Sherlock…” John watched the road anxiously, but soon he heard Sherlock exclaim, “Ha!”, the lock click, and the door open. 

“Quickly,” Sherlock said, and they both slid through the door. As Sherlock closed the door against the light of the street outside, John exhaled heavily.

Sherlock abruptly turned to him in the gloom of the sitting room. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

“Who?” John said, his head spinning.

“Jeremy, of course,” Sherlock said impatiently.

“Oh. No. I heard him in time to surprise him, I – wait, back up. Why are you Sherlock? Did Mark download you instead of Toby?”

“No, I was never wiped when we returned to The House.” John stared at him until Sherlock sighed and continued. “When Mycroft first told me about Magdalen’s murder, we of course contemplated the possibility that it was an inside job. That there might be occasion where I would need to return to The House, and that it would be dangerous to return me to the vulnerable state of Coventry. We arranged a code to use with Mark should such an occasion arise.”

John’s mind cleared. “ _’You bet’_ ,” he said. “That’s not something you would normally say.”

“Exactly. So Mark went through the motions of wiping me. I knew how to act because Mycroft showed me video of the process.”

“And he went through the motions of downloading Toby as well. Jesus.” A sudden thought occurred to him.  “Sherlock, if Moran is organizing all this, will he figure out what Mark has done?”

Sherlock’s eyes twitched to the side, then returned to John. “It’s possible.”

“I need to warn him. Him and Molly. Tell them to get out.” He pulled out his mobile and sent a text to Mark:

_We are safe but you are in danger. Get out asap. Molly too. Contact when safe._

As he tucked his phone away again, he said, “So are you telling me that for the last two weeks you’ve been shamming as Coventry?”

“Yes. I now have a whole new standard for boredom.”

“And you couldn’t be bothered to let me in on this?” John said, his voice rising.

“Sh, John, don’t shout, we don’t want the neighbours to hear us.” John gulped in some air, tried to calm himself. “I’m sorry, John but I’ve said it before – you’re a terrible liar. In a situation where we had no idea who to trust, do you really think you could have kept up the pretence, 24/7, for two weeks or more?”

John imagined it but grudgingly had to admit Sherlock was right. “All right,” he said. “But don’t bloody do that again.”

“Scout’s honour,” Sherlock said, grinning.

“You bastard,” John said. He spared a moment to think about Sherlock, being Sherlock, acting as the quiet, naïve Coventry, amongst all the other actives. A new standard for boring, indeed. “I figure having to act as Coventry for two weeks is punishment enough.”

“Too right.”

“So now what?”

Sherlock began to pace, the moment of levity giving way to the urgency of the present. “I did hear the announcement about the murderer being discovered, but we have to assume now that this wasn’t true. That nothing Moran said was true.”

“Why the story? And why now, instead of a week ago, or a week from now?”

“I don’t know. What it does mean is that the murders are still likely under investigation at the Met. With our disappearance after Lestrade’s visit, the suspicion against us is stronger than ever.”

“Jeremy tried to kill me, Milverton tried to kill you, all organized by Moran. Wouldn’t turning ourselves into the Met be safer than being killed by that lot? It’s all circumstantial evidence against us.”

“But extremely strong circumstantial evidence, John. They probably have now found CCTV footage of us at each of the locations of the murders. Moran could also have lifted our fingerprints from anywhere in The House and planted them at the scenes. Assuming that Moran is responsible for all the murders – a fair assumption.”

“Christ. Okay, you’re right.”

“In addition, I cannot be arrested.”

“Oh, it’s all right for me, is it?”

“Think, John. When they book me, they will search the records for Sherlock Holmes, and find that he died four years ago. I’d have identity fraud added to my charges. From there, it wouldn’t be too hard to trace things back to Mycroft, and possibly expose the whole organization.”

John looked up at Sherlock in horror. “Oh God, Sherlock. Mycroft.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together. “I don’t think he’s in on this.”

“No, I don’t either, but-”

“They took my phone away when they thought I was Coventry, but I never got a response to my message from Mycroft. Mycroft _always_ responds. Even just to tell me to piss off. I can only assume that,” Sherlock hesitated for a bare second, “that he is unable to respond. For one reason or another.”

John swallowed. Knowing what they now knew about Moran, it was a strong possibility that he had killed Mycroft in order to take full control of The House.  He watched Sherlock inhale deeply and straighten his back, and knew that he had contemplated this possibility as well.

“So what do we do? Can’t go to the police, can’t go to The House… Baker Street?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Moran would know about Baker Street, as do the Met.”

“So it’s breaking and entering low rent housing for the duration?”

Sherlock grunted. “Obviously this is a short term solution. We’re safe here for now, but we’ll need to be ready to move. I need to think.”

“I do think we need to do something to make you look a little less… alarming.”

“What do you mean?”

John pointed at his own jacket on Sherlock, the cuffs riding high up Sherlock’s forearms. “It really does look ridiculous. And your shirt is torn and has blood spatters. So do your jeans, they’re black so it’s not immediately obvious, but it’s there. They’re torn too. We were lucky just now, but you do stand out just now.” John looked around the cluttered sitting room, piled high with clothes, toys, and crockery. “Could you find something here?”

Sherlock flicked a glance around. “No, even worse. Single mother, three children under ten. No adult male resident.”

“Dungarees not a good look for you then?” John grinned. “I saw a couple of pound stores and consignment shops on the way out. I’ll go out and find something.”

Sherlock looked alarmed. “But John-”

John dug around the piles of clothes for a moment and found a woollen hat. “Give me my jacket back, please. I’ve just got a face that people don’t remark upon. I’ll be fine.”

“But I-” Sherlock stopped, clenched his jaw, then nodded. “In the absence of other options, I must relent.” He shrugged the jacket off, and handed it to John. “Let me write down my measurements.”

John pulled the envelope of cash from the jacket pocket and pulled several notes out, handing the envelope back to Sherlock. “I won’t take it all, I don’t want to walk around with all that in my pocket. Who know how long we’ll have to make it last.”

Sherlock gave a piece of paper to John with his measurements scribbled on it. John walked to the door and hesitated, looking back at Sherlock. He looked dreadfully out of place and vulnerable in the messy sitting room, with his torn and bloody shirt and skin tight jeans. He looked like a fashion model gone through the wars.

“Be careful,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah. You too. Stay away from the windows."

“Yes.”

John nodded once, clenched his fist and opened the door carefully, peering outside.

“John!” Sherlock hissed.

John turned back at Sherlock, his eyebrows raised in question.

“Spencer Hart if you can manage it,” Sherlock said.  “If not, Dolce and Gabbana.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” John snapped, and walked out.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock devises a plan to escape.

John walked down Portobello Road, fighting his urge to glance around him every few seconds, looking for danger and threats. _Just going to the shops_ , he thought. _Men going to the shops don’t flinch like they’re being hunted. Don’t draw attention to yourself._ He managed to hold back his instincts, but it was a constant challenge. He fleetingly wished for a pair of dark glasses to hide more of his face, but it was cold, grey afternoon, and he knew they would stand out.

He found a consignment shop with a fairly large supply of men’s clothes, though the vast majority of the pieces there were supremely ugly. He allowed himself a brief moment of amusement to think of the look on Sherlock’s face if he returned with yellow and green plaid trousers, then started digging in earnest.

Sherlock’s measurements were a challenge to find a fit for, his arms and legs long and thin. In the end he went for trousers that were long enough but too wide in the waist, grabbing a belt to help cinch it in. A button up shirt didn’t present much of a problem, and he found a long trench coat that would cover everything.

While he was paying for the clothes, he felt the buzz of his mobile. He pulled it out and smiled when he saw that the text was from Mark.

_Message received. You’re a good man, John._

He breathed a sigh of relief as he accepted his change from the cashier.

He returned to All Saints’ Road, feeling even more helpless with both hands full of carrier bags. He wondered how quickly he could drop the bags and draw his gun if he needed to.

_I didn’t leave him with the gun_ , he thought suddenly with a jolt of fear and guilt. _I should have left the gun with him. I left him unarmed and alone_. He increased his pace, then forced himself to slow down when he realized he was nearly running. _Calm down, calm down_ , he repeated to himself.

The walk back seemed to take twice as long as the walk away, but at last John recognized the flat, the front patio littered with potted plants and toys. He hesitated at the door, his hand at the doorknob – what if the owner had returned, if Sherlock had had to flee? How would he ever find him again?

Swallowing his anxiety, he scratched softly at the door. One heartstopping minute later, the latch turned and the door revealed Sherlock’s eye at the door. Sherlock quickly opened the door just enough to allow John in.

“You all right?” John said, his heart thumping.

“Yes, fine, fine. You? Did you see anything?”

“No, nothing,” John said, handing the carrier bags to him. “Here. How in God’s name do you find clothes that fit you so well?”

“Bespoke,” Sherlock said, peering into the bag. “John, this is… this is _poly blend_.”

“Shut the fuck up and put them on, you poncey git,” John snapped. “Beggars can’t be choosers, my Granddad used to say.”

“Hmf,” Sherlock snorted, but pulled his torn and bloody shirt off. John turned his back, peered out the curtains at the street. “Fortunately these clothes will work well with my plan.”

“Ah, you’ve had an idea, then?”

“Yes.” John could hear the rustle of the clothes as Sherlock dressed. “I assume you weren’t able to bring your passport.”

“No, back at my flat. No chance of going there now, too dangerous.”

“True, but no matter. The key thing is to get you out of London. You won’t need a passport to travel within the United Kingdom. North is best, I think. You’re not on speaking terms with your sister, correct? Not a viable option, they would track her down anyway. Best she not know anything about your whereabouts.”

“What do you-”

“Get a cab. Not the first cab you see, let two go by and take the third. Get to a National Rail station, get a train going north. Get on the most crowded car you can find. They’ll be less likely to try something in a crowd.”

“Sherlock, what about-”

“The key is to choose someplace that’s not overrun with CCTV like London is, stay out of view. We don’t know how widespread their influence is. Perhaps dye your hair, that can throw off-”

“Shut up, Sherlock!” John snapped. He turned around to see Sherlock dressed but frozen in the act of buttoning up his shirt. “You keep saying ‘you’. Not ‘we’. ‘You’. What are _you_ doing?”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched, but he continued with his buttons, fussing over the placket. “I’ll go to the streets. Back when… before, I would work with the homeless, I might find some of them again and-”

“Are you saying we should separate?”

“It’s the only logical solution, John.”

Something huge and black and hot swelled up from John’s gut. He swallowed it back and said, “No. Fuck that. No. Forget it.”

“John,” Sherlock said, looking down. “John, you’ve already risked too much for me, I can’t allow you to-”

“Allow me? Allow me? You – you – you arsehole. I do have a say in this, you know. I don’t just jump when you or Mycroft snap your fingers. We’re not separating. That’s it.”

“John-”

“Do you think I’ve been doing all this for, for, for fun? Or out of duty, or pity, or because it’s a job?” John was aware that he was starting to shout, and that shouting was dangerous, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Is that it? You think I’m just here because it’s a job, because I was worried about getting fired? If I was that desperate for work, there’s work at the post office. I’m not doing this because it’s a fucking job. I’ve nearly killed two – no, three – people, and it was to save your fucking life, not because I’m worried about my bloody pension.”

Sherlock was frozen, his mouth agape. John realized he was now barrelling his chest into Sherlock’s, shouting up into his face.

“So think again, genius, there’s another way, so find it, figure it out, because I won’t go to fucking Kings Cross or anywhere else without you, you absolute fucking…”

John’s hands were fisting the front of Sherlock’s shirt, shaking him, and Sherlock was not fighting him, not pushing his hands away, just staring at him with a dazed expression.

“John,” Sherlock said in a whisper.

“God damn it,” John whispered back, pulled Sherlock down, and kissed him hard.

For the space of a heartbeat, Sherlock’s lips stayed slack and unresponsive. John pulled back a fraction of an inch, then plunged his lips back against Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock made a tiny sound, a small and quiet sigh, put his hands on either side of John’s face, and kissed him back.

John felt as though lava had erupted just under the surface of his skin, starting at his mouth and hands and creeping throughout his body. It burned, it hurt, and it felt so good. Sherlock’s mouth was soft and warm, his lips plush and deft. They both opened their lips at the same time, their tongues meeting eagerly. John groaned with the mad pleasure of it, and felt the vibration of Sherlock’s answering moan.  John’s fingers were still gripping the front of Sherlock’s shirt, and some distant part of him realized that this was keeping him from getting closer. He let go of the shirt and slid his hands around Sherlock’s waist and up his back, pressing them together thigh to chest.

He had no idea how long they stood there, pulling each other so close that their joints creaked. The cramped and messy room, the smell of cheap food and sour milk faded away from around them. Sometimes one of them would pull back just enough to breathe, and the other would follow and kiss again. John felt his cock fill and grow cramped in his pants; felt Sherlock’s developing erection against his hip.

Sherlock’s mouth left John’s and began to press soft and wet kisses along John’s jawline and down his neck. “John, John,” he murmured between kisses, and John felt the hair on his body stand on end in reaction to the buzz of his voice against his skin. “I wanted you from the second I first saw you, I thought you…”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered back, running his hands up into Sherlock’s hair. “I’m so sorry it took me so long…”

And he _was_ sorry, he was now sorry for every wasted minute he had spent with Sherlock, every minute he could have been holding him. “I’m here now,” he said, and pulled Sherlock’s head to the side to expose his neck. “I’m here now.”

Sherlock sighed and tilted his head more as John kissed down the length of his neck. He wanted to draw Sherlock down, pull him down to the floor, pull the ugly shirt and trousers off his body.  John had never been with a man before, but right now it seemed so simple – just skin, and fingertips, and mouths, and Sherlock’s heartbeat thudding hard and fast under his lips…

Heartbeat. Endorphins. Dopamine. Oxytocin.

“Oh God,” he said. As if in a terrible dream, he pulled away from Sherlock. “Oh shit,” he said as Sherlock followed him, tried to kiss him again. “Stop, Sherlock, God, stop.”

He pushed Sherlock away from him, and hated the look of hurt and dismay on Sherlock’s face. “John?” he said, his voice low and breaking.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock. You-” John took a breath, tried to get himself under control again, stopping himself from pulling Sherlock back into his arms. “You have a chip. I forgot. You have a chip, and they can track you with it, and they can find you more easily when your heart rate goes up."

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John formulate a plan for escape.

They stared at each other, desire and horror fighting for precedence between them, for a long, terrible moment. Then Sherlock placed his first two fingers against his jugular, his eyes wide, his face pale.

“What’s my resting heart rate?” he snapped.

“Um,” John said, trying to force his brain back online. “It’s… it’s on the low end of average. About, uh, sixty-five to seventy beats per minute.”

Sherlock nodded, and began to breathe deeply, calming himself. “It’s about ninety five right now.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, I-”

Sherlock held up a hand, turning partially away from John. “Just – give me a minute.”

John stood in mute agony, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He watched Sherlock breathe, watched him force the tension away from his body.

After several minutes that felt like hours, Sherlock turned back to John; but John noticed that Sherlock wouldn’t look at him directly. “Okay. It’s at seventy now.”

“Okay. Okay.”

“We’ll need to move sooner than we originally planned.”

“Yes. They may have already…”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. His fingers stayed at his neck.

“Don’t press too hard, that can increase the heart rate too.”

Sherlock’s hand relaxed a bit. “Thank you.” He took another deep breath. “I just need to ask you,” another breath, “a couple of things. All right?”

“Yes,” John said, feeling more helpless than he had ever felt in his life.

“Okay,” said Sherlock. His voice was jumping all over his register, sometimes low and rumbling, sometimes breaking and pitching high. “I’d like to know, if. Do you. You said that.” Sherlock was pausing between words, clearly struggling against his body’s instincts and the call of his pulse. “You have … feelings for me?”

“Yes,” said John in a gasp. “Yes. I don’t know how or when but-”

Sherlock raised his hand and turned his back again. John watched his back expand and contract. “Okay,” he said, his back still turned. “And you will not consider my earlier plan.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You could probably save your life if you walk away now. They can track me, not you.”

“I won’t leave you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock lifted his hand again in a way that could be interpreted as imperious, if one was unaware of the situation. John knew what he was doing, and waited, waited.

After long minutes, Sherlock turned to him again, his face calm and controlled but his eyes alight. “You’re a fool, John, but I won’t hold that against you,” he said crisply. He brought his fingers down from his neck and finished buttoning up his shirt. “This is a chip, yes? Like a GPS?”

“Among other things. Tracks your biochemical mix as well.”

“Can it be removed?”

John glanced at the kitchen, the mound of dirty dishes, the cheap knife set. “Not here. I’d need proper instruments, sterilized. There’d be some blood loss no matter what, but I wouldn’t want to risk infection.”

“Not at this time then. But I can be tracked through it?”

“Yes.”

“From the van or just from The House?”

“Both, but it’s easier and faster with the set up at The House.”

“And we’ve disabled the van, at least from moving.” A slow smile spread over Sherlock’s face, the kind of smile that made John’s own pulse race. “So it responds to satellite signals? Like a mobile phone?”

“I suppose. I don’t know the science of it.”

“And are there places where your mobile doesn’t work, John? Because you can’t get a signal?”

John locked eyes with Sherlock, and grinned as they said together, “The Underground.”

Sherlock threw on the jacket John had bought. “Of course there’s Wifi in many of the stations since the Olympics, but reception is spotty at best, and Moran would need to hack into the satellite for the big providers, which quite frankly I doubt even The House has sufficient power or influence to do. The Westbourne Park station is very near here, only a few minutes’ walk. It’s above ground, so they might still pick us up, but we’ll be going faster than on foot, and by the time they get a trace on us we’ll be past Paddington and underground. The Wifi doesn’t work in the tunnels, just in the stations, and the trains won’t stay in the stations long enough for them to get a fix on us. It will buy us some time. Then the first station that’s below ground and with no Wifi is…” Sherlock paused, his eyes flicking back and forth as if reading an invisible map, “Moorgate, there is a National Rail station there but with limited access outside the city. So we’ll transfer there to the Northern line, then at Bank to the Waterloo and City line, throw them off again, get on a train at Waterloo. How does Stirling sound to you?”

“Bloody brilliant,” said John, grinning so hard his face hurt.

Sherlock met his eyes for one brief moment, then turned away, breathing deeply again. John smiled down at the floor. After a moment, still turned away, Sherlock said, “It will be nightfall by the time we get to Stirling. We can break into a clinic for the equipment you need, you can remove the chip, we’ll throw it in the sewers.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.” Another breath. “All right. Let’s go.”

John turned to the door, forcing his brain to change gears from ‘desperately turned on’ to ‘defensive soldier’. With one hand on the gun, still tucked into his waistband, he opened the door a crack and surveyed the street. “Grab your old clothes. No need for the woman living here to find them, have a heart attack. It’s clear, let’s go.”

They moved cautiously out into the street, still quiet with only a few people about. The paranoia returned as soon as John was out in the open; he watched all corners for CCTV cameras, for passers-by that looked suspicious, alleyways that could hide a van or a person.

“Not far, John,” Sherlock murmured at his side. “Look, there. Turn left here.”

John had never felt so glad in his life to see the familiar red circle and blue band of the Underground sign. Sherlock detoured quickly at the corner to dump his small bundle of clothes into a rubbish bin, and they entered the station.

“Small station, no staffed booth,” Sherlock said, “Perfect. Try to keep your back to the cameras.”

John pulled his Oyster card from his wallet, then glanced up at Sherlock. “We’ll need to buy you an Oyster card – quick, over there.” He was getting more jittery with every second, feeling exposed and vulnerable. He pulled out a five pound note from his change from the consignment shop, and fed it into the machine. It seemed to take hours, but finally the machine spat out a blue card, which Sherlock grabbed. “Hurry, John, I can hear the train.”

They went through the gates side by side. John could hear the train now as well, and could see the platform and tracks, tantalizingly close, down the stairs. They clattered down just as the train pulled into the station, and leapt into a car just before the doors closed.

“Sit facing the doors that will open onto the platform,” he told Sherlock. “Better able to watch for trouble.”

They sat rigidly side by side, watching the graffiti on the walls outside slide by. Every time they pulled into a station, John watched the platform and car for any familiar faces – Moran, Jeremy, any of the drivers or handlers. They had no idea how deep Moran’s influence had burrowed in The House – they could trust no one.

As the train exited Paddington station and entered the dark tunnel, John felt himself exhale deeply, realizing he hadn’t been breathing properly for hours now. He felt a similar whoosh of air from Sherlock as well, felt him slump a little in his seat.

“So far, so good,” John said.

“Mustn’t let our guard down too much, though.”

“No, of course not.”

“No,” Sherlock said. He glanced over at John and smiled, almost shyly. He lifted his hand, reached over and untangled John’s hands. Long fingers danced over his palm, his wrist, his nails. “You have lovely hands, John. I’ve always thought so.”

“Sherlock,” John said warningly, despite the warmth the touch had created. “Your heart rate.”

“I have never felt so calm in my life.”

John looked at Sherlock, and was suddenly ready to drown in his smile, so full of promise. “I’m a bit worried about my own heart rate at the moment,” he said, and they laughed quietly together.

They were silent for a time, the sway of the train bumping their shoulders together. Sherlock let go his hand whenever they entered a station, watched vigilantly with John as passengers boarded, but always picked up his hand again as the doors closed. John felt like a teenager again.

At Euston Square, Sherlock said softly, “Tell me about the others, John.”

“What others? The other actives?”

“No, God no. I lived with them for two weeks, didn’t I? No, I mean – the other personalities. Scott, William, Vernet.”

John stared at Sherlock, shocked by his request. “That’s… Are you sure?”

“Why, John? Should I be jealous?”

John laughed despite himself, and Sherlock grinned back. “Okay. Well. Uh, well, Scott’s a ruddy genius, chemistry professor. I did pretty well in chem back in uni but I was completely lost in his lecture. A bit shy, but funny. William’s a dear, sweet, perhaps a bit naïve. Devoted to his – your-” John hesitated for a moment, but Sherlock just nodded encouragingly. “Vernet’s a big snoot but plays violin like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Violin,” Sherlock said, and John wasn’t quite sure if he didn’t sound wistful.

They continued to talk quietly, holding hands between stations. John would never have believed that they were fleeing from danger. Sherlock was right – this was the calmest he had ever been.

The rush hour was clearly getting underway when they arrived at Moorgate, the crowds of people growing around them. John felt a bit reluctant leaving the subway car, of breaking the bubble of temporary safety it had provided. His tension rose back up to its previous heights as they walked through the station. He tried to watch everyone at once, but sooner than he had dared to wish he and Sherlock were entering another train, the doors closed, and they both breathed a tandem sigh of relief.

“Just a bit further,” Sherlock said, taking John’s hand again. “One stop to Bank, then one stop to Waterloo.”

At Bank, Sherlock did not release John’s hand. “It’s tactical,” he said at John’s questioning look. “Your right hand in my left, leaving each of our dominant hands free. Also keeps us from being separated in the crowd.”

“How very logical,” John said, but squeezed Sherlock’s hand, felt his heart bump when Sherlock squeezed back.

Waterloo station was packed with commuters, and John and Sherlock were forced to move more slowly than they would like towards the train station. On the escalator, John felt his mobile buzz. “We’ve got reception again, careful,” he said, pulling it out. He glanced at the screen; another text from Mark:

     _Remember, when the chips are down, my money’s on Albert. Every time. Double or nothing._

He frowned at the strange message. “Text must have come in while we were underground. Sherlock, did you and Mark have a-”

A sharp pain arced through his ribs on his left side – the unmistakeable feel of the barrel of a gun in his side.

“The Wifi really is so dreadful here,” he heard Moran purr in his ear. “Good thing we’ve got the voice activation on Coventry’s chip, isn’t it?”

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Good boy,” Moran said. “Let’s go home.”

“Now kindly behave yourself, Doctor Watson,” Moran murmured in his ear. “My patience has run out entirely, and I have absolutely no problem with shooting you, shooting Sherlock over there, and shooting as many of these nice people as possible to get out of the building. Completely fine with that.”

John looked over at Sherlock. Jeremy had Sherlock’s right arm pinned up behind him, and from the way Jeremy had angled his arm, it was clear he also had a gun pushed into Sherlock’s back. He heard the faint clatter of the knife from Sherlock’s sleeve hitting the ground. Sherlock was pale and his eyes were wide, searching for John in his peripheral vision.

“None of that now,” Moran said, and yanked John away from Sherlock, just enough to break their handhold. “Can’t tell you how nauseating it was listening in on you two. But it did give me an advantage – now I know exactly how to play you.”

The station was crowded, the commuters focused on their papers or e-readers or just on the idea of getting home. No one paid any attention to them. Moran had a big smile plastered on his face; John supposed that anyone looking at them would assume they were four mates meeting up for happy hour.

“Make a move, open your mouth to shout, and Sherlock will be dead before you know it. I’ll let you see him fall, then shoot you myself.”

John knew that Moran meant it, and felt himself fill up with helplessness. He nodded minutely.

“Good boy,” Moran said. “Let’s go home.”

Moran and Jeremy hustled them out of the station with efficiency that John had to admire. Within five minutes they were out on the street and in an alley where a saloon car sat waiting.

“Stand with him over there, Jeremy, by the passenger door,” said Moran, yanking John’s gun from his waistband and tucking it into his own. Jeremy pulled Sherlock as directed, turning them to face Moran and John, standing by the boot.  Jeremy maintained his armlock on Sherlock, but moved the gun to his temple.

“This is how it’s going to work, Doctor Watson,” Moran said, slowly and calmly. “I’m going to cuff you. You’re going to get in the boot. If Jeremy sees anything unexpected at all, he’s going to put a bullet in that precious head of Sherlock’s. Once you’re in the boot, I’m going to cuff Sherlock, and he’s going to sit in the back with me. If you misbehave,” Moran poked John hard in the ribs with the gun, “I’m going to splatter Sherlock’s brains all over the back seat. And if _you_ misbehave,” he nodded at Sherlock, “I’ll drive the car into a canal, with Doctor Watson still in the boot. Are we clear?”

John’s feeling of helplessness was mirrored in Sherlock’s face.

“Do I need to shoot you in the other shoulder to prove I’m serious?” Moran said.

“No,” John said. A thought occurred to him. “You were wounded too-”

“I told you the truth, I was shot in the hand. The _right_ hand. Not my fault you didn’t recognize a fellow southpaw. I can still shoot Sherlock where he stands and not get a drop of blood on Jeremy. Want to see?”

“No. No, I’ll – I’ll cooperate,” John said.

He heard the snicking sound of the cuff on his left wrist, felt it pinch, then on his right. Moran gripped the chain between the cuffs and held John’s arms unnaturally high behind him, pulling him off balance while he opened the boot. “Climb in,” said Moran, showing his teeth in a grim smile.

John looked at Sherlock, mutely trying to express his sorrow and apologies.

“I’m sorry, John. Please forgive me,” Sherlock said softly.

“Oh for God’s sake,” Moran said, and pushed John into the boot and slammed the lid.

Dully, John listened to the sounds of the others entering the car and banging the doors shut.  The car started and he rocked slightly as it began to move. He banged his head against the side of the car, over and over again. He’d gotten Sherlock in danger, likely would get both of them killed, all because of his stupidity. Helplessness gave way to blind rage and self-loathing, and he began to kick mindlessly against the side of the boot.

Suddenly, between his own kicks, he heard a click from the front of the boot, the unmistakeable sound of a gun being cocked. He stopped, remembering himself and the situation, and felt horror lump into his throat.

After a long, terrible pause, he heard a dull thumping through the metal and fabric separating him from the passenger seat. The thumping sound had a pattern, and with a start he realized it was Morse code.

Long-long-quick. Pause. Long-long-long. Pause. Long-long-long. Pause. Long-quick-quick. Pause. Pause. Long-quick-quick-quick. Pause. Long-long-long. Pause. Long-quick-long-long.

                GOOD BOY.

He felt himself whining with anger and frustration and fear. Then he heard the thumping again, but this time it was slower, softer, but still audible.

Quick-quick. Pause. Long. Pause. Quick-quick-quick. Pause. Pause. Long-long-long. Pause. Long-quick-long. Pause. Pause. Quick-long-long-long. Pause. Long-long-long. Pause. Quick-quick-quick-quick. Pause. Long-quick.

                IM OK JOHN

He laughed despite himself. Part of his brain wondered if it was bothering Sherlock to have left out the apostrophe. He found himself calming down, finding the alert centre of his brain, fighting the feeling of powerlessness. No more mistakes. No more stupidity. Their chances of surviving were low, but not zero. They were both still alive – at least for now.

After a time, he felt the car going down a steep angle, and the clanging sound of a garage door opening. He strained to hear more, but he heard nothing until the car stopped and the engine was cut. A moment later, the boot was opened. He squinted against bright lights after the fuzzy dark of the boot. After a few blinks, his eyesight cleared enough to recognize the garage of The House, and the figure of Moran standing over him.

“Comfortable?” Moran said. “Up and out. Behave now. Pretty boy still has a gun at his head.”

As John struggled out of the boot, he saw that Moran was telling the truth; Sherlock, now cuffed (which explained the stumbling Morse code earlier), stood stock still in Jeremy’s firm grip, his cheek indented with the press of the gun.

“All right, John?” Sherlock said coolly.

“Had a nice kip, actually,” John said.

“Shut the fuck up, you two. You’ve an appointment,” Moran said.

“With whom?” Sherlock said.

“Old friend,” Moran said as they were jerked into the elevator. “You remember, Doctor Watson, what I said about unfinished business? Just helping someone out with theirs.”

“Whose business?” Sherlock asked.

Moran grinned and said nothing.

The elevator opened on the installation room. The sight of the room, so familiar, made the world slightly surreal for a moment. Then John noticed the motionless pair of legs on the floor by the desk.

“Oh God,” he said, unable to stop himself. “Is that-”

“Mark didn’t obey the rules,” said Moran as he pulled John across the room and forced him to sit in a chair. “All actives to be wiped when returning to The House. Also he didn’t want to turn on the voice activation and the tracker. Pity.”

John felt the rage bubbling up again. “You sick fuck, you-”

“Shut up and look at your boy there, Doctor Watson. Keep your eyes fixed on him. You’re about to see a performance.”

John felt Moran affix his cuffs to the back of the chair, threading a zipline through the chain and then through the rail of the chair. “You can hold your applause. Have a seat, Sherlock,” Moran said, gesturing to the installation chair.

Sherlock’s face was gray, and he couldn’t look away from Mark’s body. Jeremy pushed and prodded him into the chair.

“Don’t sit back yet, pretty boy,” Moran said, moving to Jeremy’s side and replacing his gun at Sherlock’s temple. “Go round to his head,” he told Jeremy.

Jeremy moved to Sherlock’s head and placed the barrel of the gun against the crown of his head. When Jeremy was in place, Moran put his gun away and pulled out another zip line. “Left hand first, I think,” he said. With Sherlock’s right arm in an unmerciful grip, he unlocked the left side of the handcuffs, immediately pulling Sherlock into a wristlock. Sherlock grunted in pain while Moran quickly and efficiently used the zip line to fix Sherlock’s wrist to the armrest. Then he pulled Sherlock’s right hand to the other armrest and zip lined it firmly in place as well. John could see Sherlock’s skin flushing and then paling around the plastic band.

John had to grudgingly acknowledge that Moran was thorough; these elaborate actions did not allow a single second of vulnerability or weakness for either John or Sherlock to take advantage of.

“There we go, everyone comfy?” Moran said, stepping back to admire his work. “Jeremy, stand over there where you can see Doctor Watson and the door.” Jeremy moved to obey, and Moran crossed behind John to the door which led to the main part of The House.

John heard Moran tap on the door. “All set, boss. Come in.”

The door opened. Sherlock started and stared, blinking fast. “I know you,” he said. “I _know_ you.”

Sherlock’s confusion and dread leaked into John from across the room. John craned his head around but couldn’t turn far enough with his restraints. “Who is it?” he snapped. “Who’s there?”

John heard a new voice, soft and melodic.

“Jim Moriarty,” it purred. “Hi.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock,” Moriarty said softly, like a teacher to a very small child. “I thought you were gone. Gone with the wind. Gone in sixty seconds. Gone baby gone. And then Seb tells me that you’re here. Not. Gone.”

Moriarty strolled past John in his chair, whispering of expensive clothes and cologne. He approached Sherlock and walked slowly all around his chair, studying him with dark eyes that reminded John of a lizard’s.

“I see what you mean, Sebastian,” he said. “It’s ever so close, but the nose is wrong. You’re sure?”

“Yes, boss,” Moran said.

“You’re the one behind all of this,” Sherlock said. To all outward appearances he was calm and collected, but John knew him too well, and could see fear crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “Moran’s your hired gun, but it’s all for you. You killed the actives, the handlers, the drivers – had them killed, by Moran – dumped their bodies in places where I had been. Perhaps an extra nudge to the Yard via an anonymous call? All to raise suspicion of me, to frame me, so no one on the Met would trust me any more. So I would have no place to go but here, and to stay under Moran’s eye until you arrived. You’ve only just arrived from Poland – no, Czech Republic. You’ve been travelling underground for weeks, staying under the government’s radar.”

Moriarty clapped slowly. “It is you,” he whispered. “My God, it really is you.”

He crossed just behind Sherlock and to his left, forcing Sherlock to strain around to keep him in his sight. “Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock,” Moriarty said softly, like a teacher to a very small child. “I thought you were gone. Gone with the wind. Gone in sixty seconds. Gone baby gone. And then Seb tells me that you’re here. Not. Gone.”

“Sherlock?” John hissed. He wanted Sherlock to focus on him, not on this man with the gentle, evil voice.

Moriarty raised his eyes slowly to John, as if noticing him in the room for the first time. “Who’s this? Sherlock, dear, aren’t you going to introduce me?”

Sherlock said nothing, but the sound of his quickened breath filled the room.

“Do you have a new pet, darling? How adorable.”

John couldn’t bear it anymore; he lunged forward towards Moriarty, but could only move a few inches before the bite of the cuffs at his wrists held him back. Moran pulled him back by the collar and pressed the gun a little harder into the back of his neck.

“Ooo, he’s a pit bull. How very loyal. What fun you must have,” Moriarty said. “Have you told him the story of bad, bad, Mr. Moriarty?”

“I remember you from the papers, but I don’t remember meeting you,” Sherlock said.  “Why me? What’s your vendetta with me? That’s the one thing I don’t understand.”

“He doesn’t know, boss,” Moran said. “His memories were downloaded six months before he died.”

“He doesn’t know?” Moriarty’s eyes widened with glee, and John felt sick. “Oh, that’s just too precious. He doesn’t know. Shall I tell you the story then? You and your little pit bull terrier?”

He leaned on the chair, his soft hands with the manicured nails on either side of Sherlock’s head. He fixed John with a stare that seemed to go right through him and began to speak.

“Once upon a time there was a very powerful king, whose kingdom reached as far as the eye could see, and three days’ walk beyond that. The king could lift a finger and dukedoms on the other side of the world would bow to him. And the king saw that it was good.

“Then one day a silly little jackrabbit started poking his nose into the king’s business. He kept twitching his whiskers and saying, ‘This is a bad king! Look at the bad king!’

“And the king was patient with the little jackrabbit at first. But the jackrabbit began to hop closer and closer to the king’s castle, and the king’s patience was at an end. So the king decided to play a game with the jackrabbit, a game which he had played many times with other nosy woodland creatures in the past. He would invite them to the top of the tallest tower and play a game called, ‘Who Do You Love the Most?’”

John heard Moran chuckle low behind him, and Moriarty glanced up at him and smiled indulgently. “Do you know how to play this game, Johnny boy? No? It’s very simple. The nosy woodland creature has to learn how to fly, or else the king’s bravest knight will use his bow and arrow to choose the person they love the most. It’s a lovely game. Every single time, the creatures would choose to fly. But somehow, they never figure out the trick of flying. Landing, however…”

“Wait,” John said. “You mean you’d force them to commit suicide, or else you’d kill their families?”

Moriarty’s sing-song voice exploded into a shriek. “I’m telling it! I’m telling it!”

John flinched; Sherlock flinched; even Jeremy flinched, his face going paler by the minute. Moran’s gun on the back of John’s head never wavered.

Moriarty took a deep breath, and continued as though there had been no interruption. “So the king played the game with the nosy little jackrabbit, but surprise! The little jackrabbit didn’t. Love. Anyone.”

Sherlock’s eyes slid shut, his lips pressing together.

“So the king and his bravest knight had to get creative. They…” Moriarty paused. “Oh, I’m sick of this metaphor. I lured Sherlock here to the roof of St. Bart’s, and told him that I’d placed bombs in each of the major Underground stations, and if he didn’t jump, I’d blow them all up. Do you know, he didn’t believe me. Called my bluff. So we blew up an itty bitty bus for him.”

“I remember that,” John gasped. “They said that was the Taliban.”

“Amateurs,” Moriarty scoffed. “So he grabbed the trigger button from me and jumped. Made a pretty little mess on the pavement, didn’t he, Seb?”

“Jesus Christ,” John whispered.

“Want to know the funny thing, Johnny?” Moriarty leaned in over Sherlock’s body. “I _was_ bluffing. I’d only rigged the bus, nothing else. Though it’s a lovely idea. Make a note of it for another time, Seb.”

Moran laughed. “It would be easy,” he said. “London would collapse into the sinkhole.”

“Shall we get on with the story, then?” Moriarty said, his casual tone making John’s skin crawl. “Life went on. The king went from strength to strength. Then one day, the king began to hear stories of another little jackrabbit, being nosy. But then the bravest knight came to the king with the most extraordinary story – that it was in fact the same little jackrabbit, but with different fur. Different… soft… cuddly fur.”

Moriarty stroked his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock jerked away. “Don’t touch me!” he snarled.

Moriarty kept stroking Sherlock’s hair, making John’s stomach boil with rage. “But I’m not touching you, am I, Sherlock? Not really. Not _really_ touching Sherlock Holmes.”  Moriarty bent down to Sherlock’s ear and whispered, “It’s Victor Trevor I’m really touching, isn’t it?”

“Who’s that?” John snapped.

“That’s whose body you’ve got, Sherlock,” Moriarty said directly to Sherlock, as though John hadn’t spoken. “I looked him up. Lawyer. Nothing special. Quite shocking to contemplate – the brilliant mind of Sherlock Holmes in the body of a run of the mill barrister. Someone… ordinary.”

Moriarty stood and gave Sherlock’s head a final, condescending pat, and walked over to Mark’s desk. “But I’m not even really talking to Sherlock Holmes either, am I? Just a part of him. One fourth. Twenty five percent.” He picked up a wedge from the table, and John could see a label on it, with ‘Sherlock’ written neatly across it. “Would you like to see a trick, Johnny boy? I heard you’re good with guns. Who else here is good with guns?”

“I am,” said Moran.

“Show me, Seb,” Moriarty said, and raised the wedge above his head.

The gun moved from the back of John’s head and fired. The wedge exploded out of Moriarty’s hand with a shower of sparks and wires.

“Very good, Seb!” Moriarty crowed. His head swivelled back to Sherlock. “You see, my dear, I’m bored with our little game. You don’t play by the rules. And I don’t want any more little jackrabbits, you see?” He pulled another wedge off the table, this one labelled ‘Scott’.  “Can you do it again, Seb?”

“Easy as pie,” Moran said. The gun fired again, and the wedge went flying into the corner.

“Again! Again!” Moriarty held up a wedge marked ‘Vernet’.

“Don’t move, Jeremy,” hissed Moran. John, his ears ringing, looked at Jeremy, who was nervously edging his way towards the elevator. “This stuff is easy peasey, at this range. It was so boring, those others – Magdalen, the drivers. It had to be close range with a silencer. Stupid. No, what I’m _really_ good at is moving targets.”

Jeremy gulped and stayed where he was, dangerously close to the line of fire, behind Moriarty.

“Good boy,” said Moran, and fired again.

Moriarty threw the ruined Vernet wedge to the ground. “Can you count, Johnny boy? One, two, three…” He held the wedge marked ‘William’ aloft.

“Four,” said Moran as he fired.

“All right, all right,” said Sherlock. “And now you wipe me, let me simper and drool the rest of my days, is that it?”

“Tempting,” Moriarty said, tilting his head to the side. “But no. No more risks. I can’t trust you any more, Sherlock. A bullet in your brain is the only way to go.”

“Then let John go,” Sherlock gasped out. “He’s nothing to you. You’ve got me, that’s what you wanted.”

“We’re not playing that game anymore,” Moriarty crooned. “It’s too late now. Besides which, Johnny here has value to me. This technology,” he said, waving at the computer deck, “will be invaluable to my little kingdom.”

“Best handler at The House,” Moran added. “Hands down. So we do a bit of a wipe, scrub Sherlock out of his system, then copy him. Though I think he’d do much better in Assisi’s body, don’t you?”

“But don’t worry, we’ll leave your bodies for the Met to find,” grinned Moriarty. “Wrap up their little mystery for them. I love happy endings, don’t you?”

Suddenly Moriarty looked up, his brow furrowed. “How did you get in here?” he growled. “Who-”

The air exploded with three shots in quick succession. John heard a deep thud of a body falling behind him, then Jeremy jerked and slumped against the computer desk. A red hole appeared between Moriarty’s drawn together brows, and his expression turned astonished and then blank as he slid out of John’s sight.

Sherlock’s eyes were wide, and he had sunk himself down as far as he could in the chair. John’s body felt ready to snap in half with the tension and by pulling against his restraints.

He heard soft footprints behind him, and a hand holding a gun slid into his peripheral vision. The hands were small and delicate, and the gun was rock steady. He turned his head slowly.

“…Molly?” he breathed.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What do you need?”

“Are there any other intruders, Doctor Watson?” Molly’s voice was flat, hard.

“No,” said John, but it came out as a whisper. The sharp smells of gunpowder and copper pierced his nose. He licked his lips and tried again, “No. No intruders.”

Molly shifted the gun into her right hand and held it upright beside her head, on guard. “What do you need?”

“What do I – Oh. Find a knife, or scissors or something and get us out of these cuffs.”

Molly moved swiftly to the desk and returned with a boxcutter. “Will this suffice, Doctor Watson?”

“Yes,” he said. His ears were still ringing from the shooting, and he wasn’t quite sure what was real any more.

Molly moved behind him and quickly cut the zipline. “One moment more, Doctor Watson. I’ll have to pick the lock of the handcuffs.”

“O-Okay.”

Less than a minute later he heard a click, and the cuffs fell away from his hands. Molly stood, gun in the right hand, boxcutter in the left.

“Give me the knife,” John said. She flipped it in her hand and gave it to him, handle first. He crossed to Sherlock and sliced through the zipcuffs with two short, sharp cuts. Sherlock seemed frozen in place, and John gently took his hands and pulled him to his feet.

“Are you hurt?” John said, patting him along his shoulders and arms. “Are you alright?”

Sherlock remained still as a statue, like he was carved of marble and ebony, his eyes wide and staring past John.

“Sherlock?” John said, shaking Sherlock’s hands a little, as if trying to wake him. “It’s all right now. We’re safe.”

Sherlock’s mouth fell open with a soft click. “So many mistakes, John,” he said softly. “I made so many mistakes.”

John reached his hand up and cupped Sherlock’s sharp cheekbones. “Not actually a machine, Sherlock,” he whispered.

At last Sherlock’s eyes met John’s, and he started to tremble under John’s hand. John pulled him close and held him tight.

“Doctor Watson,” Molly said. “I secured the living areas first before coming here and they are clear. Are there any remaining threats to The House?”

John’s brain didn’t seem to be coordinated with his voice any more. After a couple of tries, he said, “No, there are no remaining threats.”

Immediately Molly clicked the safety on the gun, flipped it in her hand and held it out to John, grip first, faster and more efficiently than any civilian John had seen.  “For you, Doctor Watson,” she said, then pulled an envelope from her pocket and handed it to him. “I was instructed to give you this as well.”

The paper was cream coloured, thick and expensive. John ripped open the seal and withdrew a single typewritten sheet of paper. Written in elegant copperplate at the top were the words, ‘ _Read this’_.

John blinked at the paper, then read out, “The cats need to be fed.”

Molly said, “Not too much or they’ll get fat.”

“What would you like for tea?”

“Popcorn.”  Molly closed her eyes and swayed for a moment. When her eyes blinked open again, she said softly, “Did I fall asleep?”

“For a little while,” John said, swallowing around the thickness in his throat. “Would you like to sit down?” he said, seeing that she was looking shaky.

“Yes, please.”

John guided her to the desk chair he had been cuffed to. She sat, folded her hands in her lap, and sat with the quiet compliance John had seen in so many others.

“Molly,” he said to himself, feeling the realization break across his mind. “Molly’s derived from the name Mary, isn’t it? Are you called Mary?”

Molly looked at him quizzically and shook her head. “My name is Mercy,” she said.

He looked up at Sherlock, wanting to share his astonishment with him. Sherlock had picked up the ruins of the wedges and was lining them up on Mark’s work table. He moved to stand beside him, unable to imagine how Sherlock must feel. He still wasn’t even sure if Sherlock had come to grips with his status as an active, and to see the parts of himself literally torn apart in front of his eyes must have been truly horrifying.

Sherlock was using a single long finger to line the wedges up neatly, as well as possible with the chaos of wires spilling from the cases.

“Sherlock…” John murmured.

Sherlock’s head snapped up, his whole body stiffening into alertness. “John!” he said sharply. “What was the text that Mark sent you? The one you were reading at Waterloo? What did it say?”

“Wh – What?”

Sherlock sniffed impatiently, and reached into John’s pocket for his phone. He clicked some buttons, and read, “ _’Remember, when the chips are down, my money’s on Albert. Every time. Double or nothing_.’” His fingers drummed restlessly on the nearest wedge. “What does it mean, what was he trying to say…”

John and Sherlock locked eyes with each other, then they both slowly turned to look at the poster of Albert Einstein.

John moved to the wall first, and lifted the framed poster to reveal a large wall safe.

Sherlock studied the keypad. “The model is for a six digit code. There’s hardly any wear pattern; he rarely used it. Could be a date, but what date would he use? He’s too clever to use his birthday, too obvious. Einstein’s, perhaps? Probably not, he was born 1879, would make sense if it was an eight digit code, then it would be 14031879, but it’s definitely a six digit model. Einstein’s death date then.”

Carefully he entered 180455. They waited, but there was only silence.

“Hmm,” Sherlock said. He turned away and began to pace, his fingertips tapping together at his lips. It was so like the Sherlock he knew so well that John’s heart lurched.

“What do you think is in there, Sherlock?”

“I’ve no idea,” Sherlock said. “But clearly it’s important, he sent the text rather than remove himself from danger, or when he realized that escape was impossible.” Sherlock stared down at John’s phone. “Think – think – think! What does it mean? ‘ _When the chips are down, my money’s on Albert. Every time. Double or nothing.’ ‘When the chips are down, my money’s on Albert. Every_ -”

Sherlock froze, and he turned slowly to John. He was grinning, and light seemed to leak out from his eyes. “John, try 779376.”

John’s eyebrows felt like they were going to escape his face altogether, but he turned back to the keypad and entered the number slowly.

 _Click_. 

“Bloody hell,” he whispered. “How-”

Sherlock crossed to him and held out his phone. “’Double or’ becomes “Double R’; ‘nothing’ is the word ‘zero’. R-R-Z-E-R-O.” John looked blank, and Sherlock sighed impatiently and pointed to the phone’s keyboard. “Alphanumeric coding. Not numbers, but numbers representing letters, like on a phone’s keypad.” His fingers brushed over the mobile’s keys, showing John: “ ‘Double R’ – two sevens – ‘Z,’ – the nine – ‘E’ – the three – ‘R again’ – the seven – ‘O’ – the six. ‘Double R zero.’”

“You God damn genius.”

“As was Mark,” Sherlock said. “Now, shall we see?”

“After you,” John said.

Sherlock took a deep breath and swung the safe door open.

“Bloody hell,” John said again. He looked at the racks of wedges, neatly labelled and sorted. Just inside the safe were three wedges stacked messily on top of each other, as if they had been thrown in quickly.  John reached in and pulled one out, and read the label. “ _William_.” He grabbed another. “ _Scott_. Jesus. He copied them. He knew what they were going to do and copied them. My God.”

Sherlock was staring at the wedges as if hypnotized. He raised one hand slowly, as if he were dreaming, and traced the label on the wedge labelled ‘William’. Suddenly he exploded, grabbing at the wedges.

“Come on, John! Quickly!”

Sherlock swept aside the ruined wedges and laid the three wedges labelled ‘Scott’, ‘William’ and ‘Vernet’ on the work table, lining them up neatly. “Which one first, John? You choose.”

“What are you talking about?”

Sherlock looked up at him, his body twitching with manic energy. “Install them, obviously.”

John stared at him as though he had grown horns. “What? No. No no no, Sherlock. You can’t. It’s not safe.”

“But John – you heard him. Moriarty. I didn’t commit suicide because of a conflict of personality, the demons within. As romantic a notion as that is – but I was never a romantic. I did it because I was _forced_ to. And before, when I was glitching, when I couldn’t think – could it not be because I didn’t have the skill sets of the other personalities to balance me?”

John was still shaking his head. “No. Please, Sherlock. It’s not-”

“John.” Sherlock voice was gentle and soft, persuasive. “Please, John. I can be whole again.”

Everything stopped, and John stared into Sherlock’s eyes for what felt like hours. _I don’t know what this will do to him_ , he thought. _He doesn’t know either, but he wants it. And I can’t say no to him_.

“All right,” he said, his voice breaking. “Who first?”

Sherlock held his gaze for a moment more, then said, “Vernet,” and sat in the chair.

John picked up the Vernet wedge and went through the motions he had seen Mark go through so many times. He kept his eyes averted from the motionless body in the corner of the room.

He pushed the wedge into the slot behind Sherlock’s head, and paused. He wanted to touch Sherlock but somehow felt he couldn’t.

“You’re sure?” he said quietly.

Sherlock nodded.

“Okay,” said John, and clicked the Enter key.

Sherlock jolted in the chair as if hit by an electrical shock. As always, John wanted to avert his eyes, but this time he deliberately stayed focused on Sherlock. After a long moment, Sherlock stilled and the chair lifted him up.

“All right?” John said anxiously.

“It’s a little more – jarring than I recall,” Sherlock said, his voice less strident than usual. “Now Scott.”

John removed the Vernet wedge and tossed it aside.  He quickly inserted the wedge and pressed Enter, not allowing himself any hesitation.  He began to doubt his memory, because this time it seemed as though the spasms lasted longer than usual. When the chair rose upwards again, John could see beads of sweat across Sherlock’s lip, and that his skin was sallow.

“William,” Sherlock gasped.

“Take a moment to catch your-”

“William!” Sherlock barked.

“All right, okay,” John said, and switched the wedges again.

“Go,” Sherlock said, and John pressed the button.

He could hear Sherlock grunting involuntarily as he shuddered in the chair, and John wondered, too late, whether he should have given him something to bite down on. He watched a trickle of sweat run from his hairline, across his temple, skim past his ear and down his neck. At last, the chair rose as Sherlock twitched slightly, and John finally breathed out.

Sherlock licked his lips and said, “Water.”

John ran to Mark’s mini-fridge and found a bottle of water. Sherlock lifted a shaking hand to take it, but John instead put his left arm around his shoulders, lifted him and helped him to drink.

“You absolute madman,” John murmured. “You nutter, you-”

“John,” Sherlock said. “Find Victor.”

“Who?” John said, confused.

“Victor. Victor Trevor.”

“Oh no. No, love, no.”

“Think, John,” Sherlock said. “It’s this face, this body – _his_ face, _his_ body – that’s still wanted by the police. We can’t hide here indefinitely, we’ll need to leave London, at least for a while. It’s almost like kidnapping. We – I – can’t do that to him. I owe him that much.”

John let out a sound even he wasn’t able to define as a laugh or a sob. “When did you become Mr. Ethics?” he said.

“Must be William,” Sherlock said, smiling weakly. “Or your good influence. You and your strong moral compass.”

“Well, God damn us both,” John said as he turned back to the safe.

Mark had organized the wedges alphabetically, so it was the work of a moment to find ‘Trevor, Victor’. He held it in his hand for a moment, as if weighing it, comparing it to Sherlock’s other wedges. They knew nothing of Victor Trevor, except what Moriarty had said, and they didn’t even know if that was the truth. He didn’t want to do this, he didn’t want to admit it, but Sherlock was right – they owed Victor Trevor his body, no matter who he was.

He slotted the wedge in, and said, “Ready?”

Sherlock closed his eyes in reply.  

This time there was no mistaking that the process was agony for Sherlock. In the beginning he clearly was fighting to control it, but as his body convulsed his voice broke free and he cried out.

“You can do this, Sherlock, hold on, you’re almost done,” John whispered.

The cheap material of Sherlock’s shirt was soaked through with sweat as he rose into a sitting position. Sherlock breathed in great gulps of air, humming as he exhaled. John lifted him again, holding the bottle to his lips, and Sherlock drank greedily.

“All right?” John said. He poured some water into the palm of his hand and rubbed it across Sherlock’s face. Sherlock hissed at the cool against his skin.

“Now the chip,” Sherlock said as he struggled to stand.

“What? Are you completely-”

“John, we have to leave. We don’t know how deep Moran got within the system here. We can’t risk being tracked again.”

John was silent, indecisive.

“I’ll do it myself, John!” Sherlock snapped.

“You can’t, Sherlock,” John snapped back. “It’s in the back of your neck.”

Sherlock blinked. “Oh.”

John sighed and shook his head. “First, do no harm,” he said to himself, then, “All right. Molly’s office. Come on, M – Mercy.”

John took out his gun and kept it ready, while supporting Sherlock with his right arm. Sherlock stumbled as he walked, as though drunk or wounded or exhausted. John watched every corner carefully for any suspicious movement, but all was quiet and still in The House. At last they arrived in the infirmary and John tucked his gun away again.

“Sit backwards in that chair, and lean on the backrest, rest your head on your arms,” he said. He crossed to the sink and began scrubbing his hands. “Mercy, find me a scalpel or something like.”

“Scalpels are sharp, they could be dangerous,” Mercy said, with a gently scolding tone.

“Okay. Never mind then, I’ll find something.”

“Were you painting?” Mercy said.

“What?”

Mercy pointed at his face. “You have paint on your face.”

John looked at his reflection in the steel backsplash of the sink and saw that he had blood spray across his face. He shuddered, then washed Moran’s blood off his face.

He prepared his work surface, lining up a scalpel, tweezers and gauze on a table pulled up next to Sherlock’s chair. “I can’t find any local anesthetic,” he said.

“It’s all right, John,” Sherlock said.

“Want some more water before I…”

“Just get on with it.”

John took a fortifying breath, and pulled on gloves. He gently tilted Sherlock’s head down further over his folded arms, pushed up the curls from the back of his head, and found the tiny, thin scar just below his hairline. His hand did not shake as he drew the scalpel along the seam of the scar.

John could hear Sherlock hiss and grind his teeth together as his skin parted under the blade. John put the scalpel down and grabbed the tweezers, the smallest and most delicate he could find. Pursing his lips, he reached into the cut with the tweezers and pulled out the chip – a small black piece of microfilm. He put it down on the table in front of Sherlock. Sherlock stared at it.

“Such a small thing,” Sherlock whispered.

Thick gauze pressed on the wound quickly stopped the bleeding. John taped a fresh piece into place and helped Sherlock to sit upright. “All right? Dizzy?”

Sherlock shook his head, but slowly. His eyes were unfocused.

“Sherlock?”

“Too many voices inside,” Sherlock whispered.

“Oh God,” John said. “Sherlock? Listen to me, now. We have to go. Can you walk?”

“Walk,” Sherlock repeated dully. “Yes.”

John helped him to stand and pulled Sherlock’s arm over his shoulders. “Lean on me, that’s the way,” he said.

His head snapped up at the sound of the doorknob of the infirmary turning. Quickly he grabbed his gun, thumbing the safety off and aiming at the door as it swung open.

“Stand down, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to call Molly's doll persona "Mary" - after all, there are countless churches named for Mary. Then I was writing and listening to Peter Gabriel's "Mercy Street", and there it was.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Give me one reason to trust you right now."

John’s gun did not waver. “Give me one reason to trust you right now,” he said.

“Moran tried to kill me as well.”

John stared at Mycroft, appraising him, then nodded and clicked the safety back on the gun. “Where the hell have you been then?”

“Two weeks ago, I was on my way to a meeting when I received Sherlock’s text saying that you were under threat of arrest and were coming in. I now believe that Moran had tapped my phone, and when he saw that you and he were coming in, he needed to close his loop of power in The House. He sent a signal to my driver. Less than ten seconds after Sherlock’s text, before I had time to reply, my driver’s mobile beeped, and he promptly left the road and attempted to flip the car.”

“Jesus,” John said. He scanned Mycroft for healed injuries. “How did you-”

“As much as it may surprise you, I am fully acquainted with self defense skills. Have you ever heard of baristu?”

“I’m familiar with it,” John deadpanned.

Mycroft’s eyes searched him for a moment. “Yes. Well. I was able to subdue the driver and bring the car under control.”

“Bloody hell,” John said. _Mycroft Holmes, action hero_ , he thought. _Will wonders never cease_.

“Knowing that the car and my mobile were likely being tracked, I left the phone in the car and sank it into Grand Union canal. I wished Moran to presume I was dead, and so had to disappear. I was able to contact Mercy and say the code words to enable her protector personality.”

“But we’ve been here for two weeks, I spoke to her and never saw anything different.”

“Mary – the protector personality – is triggered to awaken upon the sound of gunfire. I take it that-”

“Yes,” John said, comprehension blooming. “Moran used his gun to destroy Coventry’s wedges. And then she arrived and killed them all. She saved us.”

Mycroft turned to Mercy, who was standing shyly in the corner. “Thank you, Mercy,” he said, with genuine feeling. “You did well.”

“I try to be my best,” Mercy said.

John shook his head, trying to make sense of it all. “So where the hell have you been for the last two weeks?”

“I discovered nearly immediately that Moran had locked me out of all the systems, and I was unable to gain control remotely. I have been working on hacking the system ever since. I only broke through three hours ago.”

“You’ve been in London this whole time?”

“No. When I learned about the other murders, and saw how they were all pointed towards Coventry’s activities, I felt it would be prudent to remove Mummy to a safer location-”

Sherlock’s head had been lolling on his shoulders, almost his full weight on John, but now his head snapped up.

“Where is she? Is she safe? Is Mummy safe?” he hissed.

Mycroft jaw snapped shut, the words cut off as if by a closed door. For the first time, his full attention swung to Sherlock.

“Yes,” he said carefully. “She’s at the house in France.”

“Is the wall guarded?”

“Yes, by men and women that I trust absolutely.” Mycroft was staring at Sherlock with shock and wonder. He reached out as if to touch Sherlock’s face, but stopped just shy of his cheek. “It’s you, isn’t it,” he whispered. “It’s really you. Dear God, what have you done?”

“He insisted,” John said. “He – we – installed them. All of them. Mark made copies, and we installed them all.”

“My God,” Mycroft said. “Doctor Watson, I – I don’t know what this will do to him.”

“Me neither, but he needs to recuperate. Are we safe now?”

Mycroft shook himself as if waking, but didn’t take his eyes off Sherlock. Sherlock’s head dropped again as though he had used up all his strength speaking. “Unfortunately not. While on the way here, I learned that you two had been spotted on the streets, and Scotland Yard has been alerted. I’ve used my influence to stall things as much as possible, but a warrant will be made out for your arrests within six hours. We need to get you out of the country, quickly.”

“Can’t we just hide out here?”

“Indefinitely? I think not. Also I am still uncertain of the depth of Moran’s treachery. For all I know, he has left a trail for the Met leading directly here.” Mycroft looked around him, and John thought he could see a touch of remorse in his face. “I need to make The House vanish. Raze it down to the ground, and salt the earth.”

John swallowed against rising, conflicting emotions.

Mycroft took a deep breath, and his tone returned to its businesslike timbre. “I have been preparing for this eventuality, and was fortunately able to put plans in place very quickly.” He reached behind him and picked up a briefcase. He opened it and pulled out a thick envelope, passing it to John.

“New identification under false names, airline tickets, credit cards with sufficient funds to tide you over until I can make additional arrangements,” Mycroft said. “Don’t worry, the passports are flawless, you won’t be stopped. It’s a commercial airline, I’m afraid, given my now limited trust of my own staff. But it does mean that you cannot take your gun, Doctor Watson.”

John pursed his lips, then handed the gun to Mycroft. “It’s not mine, Molly – Mercy gave it to me.” He felt naked, exposed without it.

“There is a car waiting downstairs with a driver I trust completely. She will take you to Heathrow immediately. Your flight leaves in three hours – don’t miss it.”

John looked at the passports with their oxblood cover; one with Sherlock’s face, one with his. He stared at Mycroft, realizing what lay behind the man’s actions – trust. Ultimate trust – in John Watson.

John slid the documents back into the envelope and tucked it into his jacket pocket. He shifted Sherlock’s lax body, taking more of his weight onto himself. “I’ll take care of him, Mycroft. I promise.”

Mycroft examined them carefully for a moment, his eyes shifting back and forth between them. “I see that you will,” he said softly. “And I see that I no longer need to request it.”

“No. You don’t.” John licked his lips, needing to say more. “Mycroft, Sh – your brother never committed suicide. He was forced, blackmailed by a man named Jim Moriarty. He was here, Moran brought him here.”

“Jim Moriarty? Moriarty was the man Sherlock was obsessed with, before he died.”

“I know you have cameras everywhere here. Look at the one from the installation room. The whole story is there.”

“I will. Now you must go, quickly.” He gazed at Sherlock, taking in his obvious weakness. “May I assist, at least for now?”

“Yes. Of course.”

Mycroft crossed to Sherlock’s right and pulled his arm across his own shoulders; Sherlock was now supported between them. As he did, Mycroft saw the back of Sherlock’s neck and the bandage there.

“Oh,” he said.

John froze, unable to say anything.

Mycroft smiled small at John. “Not to worry, Doctor Watson. I was going to ask you to do that anyway.”

They made their way down the hall, Sherlock stumbling between them. In the elevator, John propped Sherlock in a corner and rested for a moment. For such a thin man, he seemed to be all dense muscle and bone.

Mycroft was staring at Sherlock, an inscrutable look on his face. “I named you Coventry, you know,” he said to Sherlock quietly. “The actual name of the church is St. Michael’s, but Michael is such a pedestrian name, isn’t it? Coventry has more… poetry to it. All the other actives are named randomly, but I chose Coventry for you.” He turned to John. “Do you know the cathedral, Doctor Watson?”

“No, never been.”

“A beautiful church. One of the jewels of England. It was destroyed during the war in the blitz. The bombings left a shell of a building, nothing left. When they rebuilt it, they didn’t replicate the way it was – they redesigned it, blending together the old and the new, the traditional and the modern. I… I thought it was appropriate. A phoenix from the ashes.”

Sherlock raised his head, and the brothers stared at each other.

The elevator door opened, breaking the spell. Mycroft cleared his throat and said, “There’s Anthea. I must go upstairs and begin the cleanup. I will contact you. Go, now.”

John nodded once, as he would have done to his commanding officer, and helped Sherlock towards the waiting car. Just before the elevator door closed, John thought he heard Mycroft say, “Goodbye, brother dear.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's line, "Raze it down to the ground, and salt the earth” is a hat tip to another Joss Whedon show, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, "Primeval" (Season 4, Episode 21)


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They boarded in ninety minutes, God willing.

As the car pulled up to Heathrow, John shook Sherlock, hating himself for doing it. “Sherlock, come on,” he said.

Sherlock had not spoken since asking about Mummy back at The House. He did not sleep in the car, but gazed unseeingly through half closed eyes. John could see the beads of sweat across his lip and hairline, though it was a cool day. Sherlock’s face was pale, almost gray in the twilight.

He shook Sherlock a little harder. “Come on, Sherlock. You’ve got to go through security on your own two feet or they won’t let us on the plane. I can help you once we’re through but you have to pull it together. Now,” he said sharply, using his military tone.

Sherlock blinked. “Yes – yes,” he said at last. “Name?”

“What?”

Sherlock gestured weakly towards the envelope. “My – name?”

John swallowed when he realized how close he had been to making a mistake – not knowing their false names before going through security. He flipped open the passports. “You are Joseph Bell,” he said. “And I’m Arthur Doyle, apparently.” It was strange to see his own face next to the unfamiliar name.

“Pleased… meet you,” Sherlock said. He seemed to muster his strength and pulled himself upright. John slid out of the car to help Sherlock out. Sherlock swayed when he stood, but waved John’s hand away. “I’ll walk,” he said, “but stay close. In case.”

They walked through the airport at a pace nowhere near their usual stride, but John supposed that was for the good – two men walking urgently might attract unwanted attention.

As they entered the huge building, Sherlock waved weakly towards a store. “Baggage,” he muttered.

John nodded. Of course, travelling with no baggage at all would be suspicious. He found a bench for Sherlock to sit on, pulled out the envelope of pounds, and crossed into the store. He quickly bought a briefcase for the documents, two small carryon bags, a few items of clothing to stuff inside. He hardly looked at the items he was purchasing, paid no attention to the sizes – no time.

They boarded in ninety minutes, God willing.

John found himself sweating a little as they checked in, but the agent was soon stamping their boarding passes and pointing towards the security area.

“Need to rest?” John whispered, alarmed at the waxen shade of Sherlock’s skin.

“Keep going,” Sherlock murmured.

After a mercifully short wait in line – John had never travelled executive class before, and could now see the advantages – John was dumping their bags on the x-ray machine. The security guard cocked an eye at Sherlock, and John’s heart stopped.

“You all right, sir?” the man said.

“I hate flying,” Sherlock said weakly.

John blinked, and forced a laugh. “You idiot, did you take the anti-nausea pills already? You’re supposed to wait until just before we take off. You know they knock you for a loop.”

Sherlock looked at the security guard, his eyes wide, and John began to feel sorry for him despite himself. “I _really_ hate flying.”

The security guard chuckled. “Truth be told, sir, so do I.” He waved them through, and John’s heart began to beat again.

They got to their gate just as their section was being called. Once more they showed their passes, once more showed their passports, once more John hoped and prayed that Mycroft’s documents were as good as he had said they were, then they were on the plane and in their seats.

Sherlock seemed to deflate immediately, his head tilting to the side and leaning against the window, pale with exhaustion.

“It’s all right now, Sherlock,” John whispered as the plane took off. “We’re safe now.”

“Too many voices,” Sherlock sighed, and his eyes slid shut.

+

The flight was over nine hours, and each minute was an eternity for John. He vacillated between worry for Sherlock, who looked increasingly ill every hour; and worry that an air steward would recognize them, or suspect Sherlock was sick with something infectious. He remembered the Ebola scare the year previous, when ailing passengers were met at the airport by personnel with hazmat suits. They simply couldn’t draw attention to themselves, in any way. John couldn’t be certain that the Met wouldn’t go to the press if their escape was discovered. All it would take is one observant person with a London paper, one with their pictures in it, and all would be lost.

Whenever the air stewards were out of sight, John would wipe Sherlock’s face with cool water, and tried to press some water between his lips. The first time he tried, the water flowed straight out of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Swallow,” John hissed in his ear. “ _Please_.”

He pressed the bottle again to Sherlock’s lips, and this time he swallowed some – just a little. “Thank you,” John breathed.

Throughout the flight, Sherlock twitched; he whispered too low for John to hear; he gritted his teeth; he shook his head as if trying to shake something loose. John put headphones on Sherlock so no one would try to talk to him, placed a blanket over his lap when he shivered.

John looked out the window and saw only the ocean for hours, his own anxiety and nervousness making him feel a bit queasy as well.

They landed at last, and John half carried Sherlock from the plane, joking as casually as he could with the air stewards about his friend’s dependence on anti-nausea pills to get through a flight. John checked the ticket and was surprised to see that they were not yet at their final stop. He thought about simply staying in this city, but assumed Mycroft had his reasons for his choice of destination.

After a short layover, they boarded a tiny plane. Thankfully, no one paid any mind to Sherlock – everyone was exhausted after their own flights. John felt that they had barely buckled their seat belts when they were landing again.

“Not much longer now,” he muttered to Sherlock as they disembarked. “Cab, then hotel, then-”

John didn’t finish the sentence, because he didn’t know what happened after that.

Sherlock more or less walked through the airport, but collapsed like a rag doll into the back of the cab.

“Where you headed?” the cabbie asked, his vowels rounded and soft, a reminder to John how far from home they were.

“Um, a hotel? A nice one?”

“Empress?”

“Sure,” John said.

“Your friend okay?”

John felt exhaustion hit him like a truck, filling up the void that fear and adrenaline had left behind. “Long flight,” he said.

The sun was rising as the cab pulled in front of a pretty, old fashioned hotel covered with ivy, facing out onto a harbour. John gave a confused look at the brightly coloured bills and paid the driver.

“You need help getting him in?” asked the cabbie.

John blinked. A London cabbie would need at least an extra ten pounds before he would do such a thing, let alone offer spontaneously. “Good of you, but I’ve got him,” he said.

He sat Sherlock down in a large wing chair in the lobby and checked them in. He remembered at the last minute to sign his new, false name on the register. The unfamiliar curves of the strange name in his own hand looked alien.

At last, at last, they were in the room. John laid Sherlock gently on the bed and removed his shoes. Sherlock was now completely unresponsive, not reacting or blinking when John spoke his name, just staring blankly in front of him. John stared down at him, and for the first time allowed the horror of what they had done well up in him.

Had the burden of the installation broken Sherlock? Was it too much for even his great brain to handle? This body was just a body – human, weak, fragile. Was this catatonia permanent? John had no idea how the health system worked in this country, should Sherlock need medical attention. Would their fake identities stand up to the scrutiny of a hospital? Would a trip to the local hospital create a document trail that would lead their enemies straight to them? But if Sherlock needed more care than John could provide, what choice did they have?

John sat on the edge of the bed, seeing that Sherlock’s cheap shirt was soaked through. It felt like years ago John had bought it for him in Notting Hill. Sherlock’s hair was damp and lank, sticking to his forehead. John traced a curl along Sherlock’s temple, saw the sweat pooling in his suprasternal notch.

_I miss you_ , he thought. _I miss you irritating me, I miss you spouting your deductions, I miss your smile, I miss_ –

_Stop. Don’t._

Slowly, carefully, as though Sherlock were made of glass, he moved him onto his side, into the recovery position. He touched his hip, feeling Sherlock’s warmth soak through to his hand through the layers of cloth.

He pulled his jacket off his shoulders as though it weighed a hundred pounds. He placed the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door, locked it, and set the latch. As an extra precaution, he jammed a chair under the doorknob.

He sat in a chair facing the bed, kicked off his shoes, and placed his feet on the bed.

All he could do was wait. And protect Sherlock. As always.

“I’ll be here if you need me,” he said softly into the silent dark of the room.

 


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Let me know who you are now.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where I finally earn the E rating. :)

John was woken by his own snore. He startled awake, aware of several things at once: his nose hurt from the snore; his neck and shoulder ached from hours of sitting in the chair; his legs had fallen asleep; it was near sunset; and Sherlock was standing with his back to him, looking out the window.

“Sherlock?” he said.

Mountains were visible from the window, stretching across the horizon. Sherlock stared at them for a moment more, then half turned to John, his face in profile. “Are we in… Scotland?”

“No, Canada. Victoria, British Columbia.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up. “Canada? Huh,” he said with a note of surprise, and turned to face the window again.  He spent a long moment surveying the mountain range along the horizon. “I suppose Mycroft had his reasons for sending us here.”

“It’s very, very far away?”

“Hmm. I suppose it was this or Australia.”

John rubbed his legs, trying to ignore the rush of pain as the blood began circulating properly again. “How long have you been awake… up?”

“About an hour.” Sherlock’s voice was a little hoarse, but strong and sure, with none of the weakness or hesitation remaining. John wished he would turn around. _Are you hiding from me?_ he thought. _Look at me, look at me. Let me know who you are now._

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he said instead.

“You were tired, it’s understandable. Also I suspect I was not terribly scintillating.”

“Are you all right?” John asked. A simple question, but he felt the weight of the words.

Sherlock was silent, and John tried to read his emotions from his back, his shoulders, his neck. The bandage was still in place, marking where John had cut him open.

“It hurt more than I expected,” Sherlock said quietly. “I mean the installation, of course, but also – afterwards. My head was very… loud.”

“You kept saying, ‘Too many voices’.”

“Yes. There was a lot of… squabbling. Like a nest of baby birds, all crying out for attention. I – we – have been… negotiating.”

John swallowed. “Who won?” he asked, aware that his hands were clenching, unclenching, clenching.

“No one. Everyone. I believe that we are working together now.”

Sherlock’s hands were clasped behind his back. John could see that his fingers were gripping each other; the only movement in his body.

“John, I – I’m not the same person anymore.”

John could hardly hear over the rush of blood in his ears. _I’ve lost him_ , he thought dully.

“I’m not just Sherlock any more, I am Sherlock, and Scott, and William and Vernet. And Victor. And I recognize that this… scenario… is not what you had bargained for. I will understand if… If.”

John couldn’t speak. _I’ve lost him, I’ve lost him, I’ve lost him_.

“They’re all so different, John. Such diverse interests, methods of reasoning, interests, skills. I can hardly believe that this is how I used to be, but it is beginning to feel familiar again. All the time we were on the plane, all the time here, I’ve been… reacquainting myself with these aspects of my own personality, finding out about them.”

Sherlock paused, and John saw his jaw tighten.  “Interestingly, there is but one point upon which we are all agreed.”

Sherlock finally turned to face him. At first his head was tipped down, as though embarrassed or shy; then he lifted his chin, straightened his back, and looked at John.

“They – we – all love you. Each in their own way. All of us. Together.”

Somehow John crossed the room. He wasn’t aware of his feet moving, and it wasn’t fast enough, not fast enough, and then he was there and holding Sherlock and Sherlock was holding him.  He pushed his face in Sherlock’s neck, absorbing his warmth. Sherlock smelt a bit sour, of sweat, and copper from the blood of the last forty-eight hours. He smelt of danger passed.

He tilted his head up, pulled Sherlock’s head down and kissed him. Sherlock made a noise that was half sigh, half groan, and tugged John closer. The kiss was different from the one they had shared in the house they had broken into – it felt so long ago – but Sherlock’s mouth joined with his in a way that felt so incredibly familiar, as though they had been kissing for years.

It was more than a second kiss, it was more than a kiss without adrenaline in the mix. John could feel the change in Sherlock through the kiss: he could feel Sherlock’s cleverness in his lips and tongue, Scott’s shyness, Vernet’s passion, and William’s simple, unconditional love.

“All of you,” he whispered against Sherlock’s mouth, needing to repeat it, needing to voice the wonder of it.

“Yes, John. All.”

An unwelcome thought sliced through John’s mind, and he hesitated. Sherlock felt it immediately, and looked down at him, puzzled.

“What is it, John?”

John hid his face in Sherlock’s chest, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, it’s just – Victor. I haven’t met Victor. I don’t know-”

John could feel Sherlock’s chuckle through his chest, buzzing against John’s face. “My John,” he said softly, and John felt a gentle kiss on the crown of his head. “My conscientious John.”

Sherlock’s hand grasped John’s chin and tilted it back up to him. “I of course was least familiar with Victor. The others were like… like distant cousins I hadn’t seen in years, but I knew them. I didn’t know Victor either, but he was most at home in this body. But when I tell you we are all working together, I assure you that I mean Victor as well.”

“But-”

Sherlock’s fingers traced John’s face, and he grinned. “Victor thinks you’re kind of cute and he’s willing to go along for the ride.”

John snorted and laughed, and felt better. “All right, then.”

Sherlock’s smile faded slowly, by degrees, but he held John’s face in place, never breaking his gaze. “You made us safe, John,” he said solemnly. He pulled John’s hand up to his neck, so John could feel the patch of gauze there. “You cut into my skin to make sure they could not follow us, cannot track me by my heartbeat. You came with me half way across the world to keep me safe. You watched me as I was insensate and vulnerable.

“Tell me now – are we safe?”

“Yes,” John whispered. “I think we are.”

Sherlock leaned into him again, whispering into his ear. “Then make my heart beat fast, John.”

John smiled, and let Sherlock see the feral desire behind it. “Done.”

They surged together again, and this time the kiss was desperate and hungry. John felt heat break along his skin, at his lips, at his hands, and everywhere Sherlock was touching him. He explored the shape and texture of Sherlock’s mouth, and allowed Sherlock to do the same for him. His fingers crept into Sherlock’s hair, tangling into the curls while Sherlock mouthed and licked at his neck. When he couldn’t bear it any more he pulled urgently at Sherlock’s hair until Sherlock tipped his head back, and John could lap at Sherlock’s throat and collarbones. Sherlock tilted his hips into John’s, and John suddenly realized how hard he was. He pushed back and felt Sherlock’s erection against his, and they both gasped, and froze.

“God,” Sherlock said hoarsely, and John pushed him onto the bed.

“Is this okay, is this okay,” he panted, and Sherlock sighed, “Yes, yes, _please_ John.” John twisted until they were lying side by side, their legs tangled together. They struggled with each other’s shirt buttons, their knuckles banging together as they fought for room to work in the small space between them. John finally realized they were getting nowhere, and pushed Sherlock’s hands out of the way.

John had always teased Sherlock for his expensive taste in clothing, but he understood as soon as he had pushed the cheap shirt aside and touched Sherlock’s skin. His skin was soft, and warm, and it seemed a desecration to have the coarse material against it. He stroked his hands up and down Sherlock’s chest, tracing his collarbones, brushing the sparse hair on his sternum and trailing down his belly. He found himself hypnotized by the feel of the rise and fall of his ribs as he breathed. He must have been focused on that sensation for a long time, because he startled when Sherlock gently removed his hands, kissed his palms, and whispered, “My turn.”

“Take this off first,” he said, and Sherlock obeyed, shrugging the shirt off his shoulders and throwing it aside.

John was unprepared for the feel of Sherlock’s hands on his skin. His hands covered his entire chest, spreading wide across his ribcage. Sherlock’s tongue traced the outline of his bullet scar on his shoulder, making him shiver. John felt his nipples rise and harden under Sherlock’s palms. He whined a little at the sensation. Sherlock licked his lips and smiled, then rubbed his thumbs against them, teasing them.

“Oh God,” he sighed, and used his legs and arms to pull Sherlock against him. The feel of hot skin against hot skin made John frantic. Their kisses turned wild, sucking and biting at each other’s lips and necks. Their hands darted over each other, pulling closer, scratching, stroking, rubbing, never resting in one place for more than a second or two. If John had been capable of thought, he would have asked permission first, but instead his hands went boldly and directly past the barrier of Sherlock’s waist and grabbed at his arse. Sherlock sucked in his breath with a groan, and responded by grinding himself into John. John’s cock was so hard he saw stars.

“Sherlock,” he moaned into his skin. “Sherlock, God, I want you so much, but I don’t – God – I don’t know what to – how to-”

“I know, I know,” Sherlock said between kisses, “I want you too, I don’t know eith-”

Sherlock stopped mid-word, sitting up. John sat up too, alarmed, and saw Sherlock’s face lit up in discovery, his head tilted to the side as though listening to something.

“Huh,” Sherlock said. “Apparently I do.”

Sherlock scrambled off the bed and ran towards the toilet of the hotel room, leaving John sitting on the bed blinking in astonishment. John heard bottles clinking against each other, and the water running. Then the rustle of clothing, and then he saw Sherlock’s trousers as they were flung out of the room, the belt clinking against the closet door as they fell.

“ _Jesus_ ,” he said, and got his own jeans off faster than he ever thought possible. He leaned back against the headboard, listening to water splashing. He stroked himself gently but stopped almost at once; he was too far gone, and he didn’t want to get any closer without Sherlock.

The water shut off and Sherlock burst back into the room, carrying a small bottle with the hotel’s logo on it. As soon as he saw John he skidded to an abrupt halt, staring.

John took in his first sight of Sherlock fully naked – the long muscles in his legs, the angle of the bones in his hips, the soft curve of his arse, and the arch of his cock, hard and hovering parallel to the ground. John felt his own cock lift and slap his belly in reaction.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, frozen in place. “John. You’re so beautiful.”

“No, no, you – come here, come _here_ -” and then Sherlock was back in his arms, pressed against him, his lips against his.

“Lotion, John, it will do for now – is that..?”

“Yes. God, yes. Are you sure?”

Sherlock nodded, looking deep into John’s eyes. The intensity of his gaze made a wave of heat roll across John’s skin.

“You need to prepare me, John. Will you?”

John could only nod in reply. Sherlock lay down on his back, on John’s right, lifting his right leg and placing his foot on the bed, tilting his knee off to the side. He pressed the bottle into John’s hand.

John’s hands shook as he poured a generous portion of the lotion over the fingers of his left hand, his strong hand. He slid his right arm underneath Sherlock’s head and shoulders, cradling him, crowding him close.

“All right, love?” he murmured.

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered, looking up at John, his face clear and open and trusting. “Yes. Please.”

John had never done this before, and he decided that slow and gentle couldn’t go wrong. “You’ll tell me if I hurt you?”

Sherlock shook his head minutely. “You won’t hurt me,” he said with quiet certainty.

John felt a wave of heat rolling over him, swallowed, and nodded. He moved his hand down and let his finger slowly circle Sherlock’s hole. Sherlock’s breathing sped up but his eyes never wavered from John’s. John carefully pressed his finger inside, watching Sherlock’s face for any signs of discomfort or pain, but Sherlock’s eyelids merely fluttered and then opened again. 

“Good?” he whispered.

“Good,” Sherlock whispered back. “More, please.”

Slowly, slowly, John worked to open Sherlock up, forcing himself to be more patient than he ever thought possible under the circumstances. It wasn’t until Sherlock was writhing and moaning under John’s hand that he realized he was rutting against Sherlock’s hip.

“Enough,” Sherlock gasped. He pulled John’s hand away and grabbed the bottle of lotion from the bed. With a blur of motion, Sherlock pushed John to his back and straddled him over the tops of his thighs. John felt his heart set a double time as he saw the flush across Sherlock’s chest and neck, and the drop of precome sliding down Sherlock’s cock. He was so mesmerized by the sight he nearly missed Sherlock pouring a dollop of lotion into the palm of his hand, and startled when Sherlock coated John’s cock with it.

John’s head slammed into the pillow at the cool of the lotion mixed with the heat of Sherlock’s hand. “Jesus,” he hissed, “ _Jesus_ ,” and Sherlock lifted himself up, grasped John’s cock firmly, and lowered himself down.

Language escaped him. It was instantly so tight and so hot inside Sherlock’s body, and John couldn’t breathe for a moment. It felt impossible, but Sherlock pushed down relentlessly, his head tilted back until he was one long line from hips to chin. John felt himself slide deep inside Sherlock’s body. He skimmed his hands across Sherlock’s belly, feeling the quiver of Sherlock’s breath as he settled into place.

“Okay, love?” he said breathlessly.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked down at John, with a faint but feral smile. “Feels so good, John.”

“Oh God Sherlock, yes, I’ve never-” John said, but his thought was cut off abruptly as Sherlock began to move. John could feel Sherlock’s body adjusting to the presence of John’s cock. The grip and the slide was unbelievable, unlike anything John had felt before. He moved his hands to Sherlock’s hips, learning Sherlock’s rhythm and pace from them. Slowly they started to move together; Sherlock lifting up slowly and pushing down, and John pushing up at the same time, until their breath was punching out of them in synchronicity.

“You feel incredible,” John was able to gasp. “You’re incredible.”

“John – John – John,” Sherlock whined.

Suddenly John wanted to kiss him, touch his hair. “Can you – come down here – I need-”, and somehow Sherlock understood him, and folded himself over John’s body. They kissed messily, groaning into each other’s mouths at the change of the angle of their joined bodies. John sucked on Sherlock’s full lower lip, letting it go with a wet pop as Sherlock sat back up.

John felt his urgency begin to build and grow, and he rubbed his palms up and down Sherlock’s thighs. Suddenly he became aware that the large muscles of Sherlock’s legs were twitching, and that Sherlock was losing his rhythm, and not in a way that indicated an imminent orgasm. Despite the haze of sensation and sexual excitement, John realized that Sherlock was still suffering the exhausting effects of the last twenty four hours.

Sherlock seemed to realize it at the same time. “John, please, please, I want to, but I-”

“It’s all right, love,” John whispered, pulling Sherlock down to him and kissing him again. “It’s okay,” he said, flipping them and reversing their positions, Sherlock on his back, John pressed close over him. “I’ll take care of you, love, it’s all right,” he said, and began to thrust hard, hard.

“God, yes, John, that’s good,” Sherlock cried. “More, more, more, harder, yes… Touch me, please, touch me, so close…”

John reached his hand between them and began to rub Sherlock’s cock, spreading the precome over him, making it wet and smooth. He moved into a place beyond words, grunting with each thrust, growling as Sherlock threw his head back and cried out. He felt Sherlock’s body tighten and grasp around him, seconds before he felt Sherlock’s come pour out, wet and warm, over his hand. He pushed deep once, twice more, and then shuddered as the release broke over his body, emptying deep inside Sherlock.

John shivered his way through the aftershocks, feeling Sherlock’s body jerk underneath him. Finally he exhaled deeply and felt his muscles relax. He carefully pulled out of Sherlock’s body, sparking another twitch from Sherlock.

“You okay?” he said, suddenly aware of how hard he had been thrusting at the end.

Sherlock chuckled softly and fondly. “Oh God, yes,” he said, his voice deep and rich and a little hoarse.

John laughed softly in response, kissing Sherlock’s face as he lay beside him. “Just wanted to be sure, you know.”

“Always taking care of me.”

“One way or the other.” John let himself go sober. “At the end there, were you – was I hurting you?”

Sherlock turned quickly towards him. “No, of course not,” he said. “I would have told you if you were. No, just – tired.”

“You’ve been through a lot, my love,” John said, carding his fingers through Sherlock’s sweaty hair. “I assume you weren’t sleeping on the plane, or here? You were – negotiating?”

“Yes, exactly. Not very restful.”

“Understandable. Sleep now.”

He felt Sherlock go tense under his hand. He raised his head to look at him properly, worried. “We’re safe now, you can rest.”

“I know.”

“Then – do I have to pin you down again?” he said, only half joking.

Sherlock smiled and shook his head. “No,” he said, then crooking an eyebrow, “well, not for that reason anyway. Save that thought for later.”

Despite the recent orgasm, John felt another wave of heat wash over him. “Noted,” he managed to say. 

Sherlock turned his head to look out the window at the sun setting over the mountainscape. “That night,” he said softly, “back at Baker Street. It wasn’t just the case. I was – I was nervous about falling asleep.”

John was about to ask why, when the realization broke. “You had never slept without waking up as someone else.”

“Exactly.”

John kept running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, soothing and soft.

“I didn’t sleep much at The House either,” Sherlock said, and John didn’t think he was imagining the slur of exhaustion in Sherlock’s voice. “Do you know where the actives sleep, John? In little sunken beds in the floor, with a glass cover. Like a coffin.”

“Jesus, Sherlock.”

“I would stay awake as long as I could, going over the information I had about the case, whatever I had overheard from the handlers – which wasn’t much. I can go without sleep for quite a while, but eventually I realized I had to rest a little. But I was still worried I would wake up as Coventry.”

“You wouldn’t have, you know. Doesn’t work like that.”

“I know, but – but. I couldn’t help thinking about that night, at Baker Street, how well I slept because – because you were near. And even if I was someone else when I woke up, you’d still be there.”

John could see Sherlock’s eyelids fluttering. “Did you sleep at The House at all, then?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, and there was a long pause. “I would imagine you sleeping nearby, in the gym, and then I could rest a little.” 

John pulled Sherlock’s body into his arms, feeling the muscles grow pliant and relax against him. He tilted Sherlock’s heavy head onto his good shoulder. “Sleep, Sherlock. I will be here, and you will wake up as you. I promise.”

But Sherlock was already asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter to go!


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hello Sherlock."
> 
> "Hello John."

John woke slowly, gradually, without the sharp gasp of fear of a nightmare or the adrenaline rush of danger that he had almost become accustomed to. He felt comfortable, with smooth and silky sheets and soft blanket and pillows. He let his eyes blink open to weak light filling the room. He turned his head and saw Sherlock, head propped on one hand, staring at him intently.

John smiled, feeling a curl of happiness melt through him. “Hello Sherlock,” he said.

He saw Sherlock relax a little, and smile back. “Hello John.”

“Sleep well?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“What time is it?”

“7:18 am. Pacific Time, I understand.”

“Hm. We may have discovered the cure for jetlag. Terrify yourself witless before your journey, remain in a catatonic state during the flight, then fuck each other’s brains out. How long have you been watching me sleep?”

“Not long. Perhaps one full REM cycle. Did you dream?”

“I dreamt I had incredible sex with a brilliant madman. You?”

“Interesting, I had a similar dream. I dreamt I was shagged rotten by a beautiful soldier.”

“Remarkably similar.”

Sherlock grinned briefly but then his face changed, like a shadow, with worry creasing his brows. “John, do you… have you-”

John knew what he was thinking. A hesitant Sherlock Holmes – would wonders never cease. “Do I have any regrets, you mean? Second thoughts?”

“Well, yes.”

John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock, softly at first and then with growing heat. He kissed Sherlock until he felt him go boneless in his arms, then he released his lips with a smack. “Nope,” he grinned cheekily.

Sherlock’s mouth twisted around with amusement. “Good,” he said, then he jumped out of bed. “I need a shower right this minute. My God, John, how could you stand even being near me last night, I can barely stand myself. It’s been thirty eight hours and twenty two minutes since I last bathed, and that was with a bunch of insipid actives who kept mentioning how _nice_ the water was. I got out of there as soon as I could.”

Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom and John heard the shower start. He lay back in bed, feeling a bit bereft and a lot aroused.

Then Sherlock’s head popped around the doorway again.

“John, I have made a startling discovery. Shower stalls in Canada are _enormous_.” He winked and said, “Come and see?”

John nearly fell out of the bed trying to untangle himself from the sheets.

+

After a thorough examination of the facilities, John and Sherlock agreed that their first order of business was clothes. Sherlock was loath to put on his cheap, ugly, ill-fitting clothes again. Initially he refused outright, but John told him adamantly that he couldn’t possibly wander around the city wearing only a sheet. Sherlock pouted, and John kissed him until the pout disappeared, and Sherlock got dressed.

They went down to the lobby and asked the concierge for his recommendations for a good tailor. The concierge showed them the location and route on the map, saying that it was a short walk away. Sherlock stared intently at the map for a long minute.

“You’re welcome to take it, sir,” said the concierge, looking confused.

“I don’t need it, thank you,” Sherlock said, pushing it back across the desk.

John looked at him, half aware of a silly grin on his face. “You memorized it, didn’t you? Just now?”

“Of course.”

“You’re a bloody marvel.”

They stepped out of the front doors, and stopped short at the sight of a harbour full of yachts, trees in full blossom, flowers everywhere, and familiar double-decker buses parked in front of the hotel. They stood there for a moment in culture shock.

John shook his head. “Sherlock, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”

“I thought you said we were in Canada, not – oh.”

John looked at him quizzically. Sherlock shrugged, and said, “Victor knew.”

+

Three days later, John looked around the hotel room through half opened eyes. In a short period of time, they had created an astonishing amount of mess – new clothes, carrier bags, takeaway boxes, maps, books, newspapers from all over the world – all scattered around the room haphazardly.

_Should do a tidy_ , John thought. _Or let housekeeping in. Something_.

But even as he thought it, his eyes slid shut again and he curled closer into Sherlock’s body. _Not now_ , he thought. _Not just yet_. Because now he was naked and warm and happy in Sherlock’s arms. Because the window was open and a soft breeze was making the curtains flutter, and the air smelt like cherry blossoms. Because only ten minutes or so ago John had had the best orgasm of his life.

They had spent three days alternating between exploring the city and exploring each other. Sherlock studied him for hours, much as he had studied the map – plotting, analyzing, memorizing. John had taken some time to come down from weeks, months of tension and anger at the world, and finally allowed himself to relax, be himself, drown in the sensations of new love. Falling in love with Sherlock, back in London at The House, had happened without his being fully aware, but now he let himself immerse himself in that love like a warm bath on a cold day.

He had never contemplated penetrative sex for himself before, and the whole idea had made him nervous, but after watching Sherlock’s face go luminescent with bliss every time John fucked him, he began to get curious. He had stammered and blushed furiously when he finally asked Sherlock to fuck him, but Sherlock had been serious and gentle, a side of him John would never have expected to see. Sherlock’s eyes never left his as he carefully prepared him, until John was writhing and panting and _ready_.

It had hurt for a minute, then it felt all right, then it was incredible, and he came and came and came. He was pretty sure he had passed out momentarily.  Sherlock kissed him through the aftershocks, and cleaned them up, and wrapped John up in his arms, and John had never felt so good in his life.

“Oh God, did we leave the window open again? During?”

“I keep telling you, John, the window faces the harbour. Just boats.”

“Boats with people-”

There was a sharp knock at the door. They froze, staring at each other. John felt the adrenaline rush into his bloodstream, horrifying and familiar. Images flashed through his mind – Moran’s smile when he caught them in the Underground, flashing blue lights of the police, Moriarty’s sick and twisted grin.

He rolled out of bed and grabbed his jeans, throwing them on quickly. Sherlock slid into a housecoat, his face grim and stern. John grabbed an empty bottle of wine, holding it by the neck as an improvised weapon. He moved silently to the door, but Sherlock held up his hand.

“Who is it?” Sherlock called in the rounded tones of a Canadian accent.

“Front desk, sir,” said a young man from the other side of the door. “I have a package to deliver to you.”

“I wasn’t expecting a package.” Over the sound of his heart thudding, John had to admire how quickly Sherlock had adapted the accent.

“Um…” John could hear the rustle of paper behind the door. “There’s a note on the delivery slip, I’m to say, uh, ‘ _Lead with the Queen of Spades, then trump’_.”

Sherlock sighed and sagged with relief. He looked up at John’s worried face and mouthed, “Mycroft.”

John felt a bit foolish, but didn’t put down the wine bottle until Sherlock had accepted the box, tipped  the bellhop and closed the door after him. Only then did he allow himself to relax again.

Sherlock was already digging into the large box, his brow furrowed with confusion. “Mycroft and I set up that passcode a while back,” he said. “What on earth could he be sending?”

“Jaffa cakes?” 

Sherlock threw a letter at him from the top of the box. “See what the insufferable oaf has to say for himself. Just looking at his handwriting gives me heartburn.”

“That might just be the pastries you ate for breakfast,” John said, opening the ivory envelope.

_Dear Sherlock and Doctor Watson,_

_I presume that you have landed safely at your destination, and from early reports of your spending habits I can gather that Sherlock has recovered sufficiently to remember his taste for clothing._

John blushed and felt a small coil of hot embarrassment in his belly.

“Don’t let that bother you, John,” Sherlock said. “Mycroft likes to watch over every cent. I’m sure he still mourns the loss of the ha’penny.”

_You will forgive me for the delay in sending this to you, but as you can well imagine I have been busy with housecleaning, if you’ll pardon the expression._

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “So subtle.”

_I have been working with some contacts I have at New Scotland Yard to clear your names. This is proving to be a challenge but is not insurmountable, I think. I have evidence enough, but separating it from the mechanics of The House is proving to be difficult. Progress is being made, however, and I suspect the charges will be dropped eventually. I advise you therefore to think of this time not as exile, but rather as an extended holiday._

_Should you wish to fill your time with something of more value than shopping, I have included the contact information for a colleague who works with the local constabulary. He may wish to share some cold cases with you._

John looked up in time to see Sherlock’s face light up with delight. He smiled back, feeling his heart thump at the sight.

_I have also assembled a bit of a care package for you. Doctor Watson, I’m afraid I was unable to safely enter your flat, and so I have taken the liberty of selecting some gifts that I hope will be of use and value to you._

_Sherlock, I have included some items that I have been caring for for you, and now return them to their true owner with – dare I say it – filial affection._

_Yours,_

_Mycroft Holmes_

John looked up from the letter to see Sherlock already digging eagerly into the box. He handed John a flat box first.

“A gun, I think,” Sherlock said. “A Sig, by the weight of it.”

John took the box and reverently opened it, taking a steadying breath at the glint of metal. “It’s just like the sidearm I had in Afghanistan,” he said.

“Wouldn’t surprise me if it was in fact the same gun,” Sherlock said. “Mycroft likes to do these things. He’s thorough too – I imagine the ownership papers are there as well?”

“Yes, under the fake name.”

“See? Thorough. This is for you too.” Sherlock handed him a leather satchel, which turned out to be a full medical kit. John sat down heavily on the bed, staring at the gun in his left hand, the kit in his right.

Sherlock smiled at him. “There you are,” he said softly. “My warrior and my healer.”

John shook his head disbelievingly. “Mycroft Holmes as Father Christmas,” he said.

“Nauseating, isn’t it?”

“Oh, shut up, it’s lovely,” John said without rancor. “Go on, what’s he sent you?”

Sherlock looked back into the box, reached in and drew out a long tweed coat.

“Sherlock,” John said. “That’s your – you wore that when-”

“Yes,” Sherlock said distractedly as he rubbed the material between his fingers. “My coat.”

John gazed at him, remembering when he first met Sherlock, their first case together – chasing after the long-legged figure in the elegant coat running down the alley. He swallowed, thinking of some other, not-so-practical uses for the coat in the future. “Anything else in there?”

Sherlock looked down at the box as if in a dream. He put the coat aside and reached in once more, pulling out a case. He carefully laid the case on the bed and opened it to reveal a violin.

“Oh,” Sherlock said quietly, stroking the caramel coloured wood.

He removed the violin from its velvet bed, plucking the strings and adjusting the pegs. John realized that he had stopped breathing.

Sherlock placed the violin at his chin, and glanced at John with a look that was filled with trepidation and wonder. Then he raised his bow and began to play.

The notes spun out like pure glass. They tripped out of the violin and filled the room, joining with the smell of cherry blossoms and the ocean. John felt himself grinning, his own happiness leaking out of his eyes as he watched Sherlock play.

And as the last notes rang from the strings, Sherlock turned to him and smiled.

 

  _End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has been with me for about a year, and I can't quite believe it's over!
> 
> First and foremost, a huge thank you to my marvellous beta, ResidentBunburyist, who has been encouraging and challenging in equal parts. 
> 
> Also thank you to every one of you that follow this while it was a WIP, left comments, shared your theories, and gave me the motivation to carry on. People like you are the lifeblood of a fic writer.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Coventry (Character Files)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3491825) by [stravaganza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stravaganza/pseuds/stravaganza)




End file.
